


in these times of dying

by MarleyMortis



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Steve Rogers, Codependency, Depressed Steve Rogers, Depression, Disordered Eating, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Rated Mature For Depressive Episodes, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Is Not Okay, Stucky Big Bang 2017, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, binge eating, chubby Steve Rogers, sbb2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-16 18:10:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11834223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: Steve's Plan Following His Best Friend Abandoning Him To Return To CryostasisStep 1:  Deny everything.  Steve's fine.  Bucky's fine.  Tony's fine.  Everybody's f##king fine, godd##n it.Step 2:  Find Hydra.  Eliminate. With gross prejudice.Step 3:  Discover means to remove Bucky's trigger words.Step 4:  In the event of failure of Step 3, hit things. Don't bother cleaning up the blood.Step 5:  Ignore personal healthcare. Those fevers are nothing weird.Step 6:  Find Satan.  Make deal with Devil.Step 7:  ----------A canon compliant character study into Steve Rogers' mental state following the events of CA:Civil War





	1. d e n i a l

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware of the tags. This story can be deeply triggering to some people given the subject matter. The effects of Steve's depression will be laced throughout.
> 
> Gotta give a shout-out to my amazing artist, [Turn_Turn_Turn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/turn_turn_turn/pseuds/turn_turn_turn) who was an absolute dream to work with and is so, so talented. You made this Bang an incredible experience! Her art is an amazing representation of this story, and she's a very talented writer, too! Check out her work here on the archive.
> 
> Also, to my amazing Beta, [Dreadnought](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadnought/pseuds/Dreadnought) without whom this fic would have been much less polished and who swooped in with some awesome feedback!
> 
> And last, but not least, a huge thanks to the moderator team from the Stucky Library. They worked super hard and made this Bang such an easily accessible experience. Couldn't have asked for a better team of people for my first Bang.

Raucous laughter filled the communal living space. It brought warmth and a jovial atmosphere so in contrast with the events leading up to their banishment to Wakanda. Scott, perched on the edge of the table, shrieked a warning that caused Wanda to whip her character around to blast an encroaching zombie in the face while she yelled for back-up from the rest of her teammates.

“Come on, guys. Don't leave me behind,” griped Sam.

“Don't we know our Sam?” Scott and Clint sing-songed at the same time.

“Ha ha,” he dead-panned. “You two think you're so funny.”

“They are pretty funny,” agreed Steve.

“Don't open the door,” Wanda said.

Steve opened the door. A horde of zombies spilled out right in his face, and his character couldn't get away fast enough. He went down while the real Steve made gurgling noises to accompany the death of his character. “Isn't anybody gonna help me out?”

“Nah, man. You're already dead meat.”

“That's how it is?”

“That's how it is,” Sam said.

“You are all so mean to me.”

Tossing his controller onto the sofa, he got up and headed across to the kitchen to get some snacks while the others carried on without him. He turned. Leaned back against the counter with ankles crossed and arms braced on the counter top to watch the group. The hint of a smile felt foreign to him.

“Grab beers on your way back,” Clint said.

His team. His family. With one notable exception. Just one story below them and in a perpetually dark chamber rested a cryostasis pod. Inside that pod slept his only link to a past that seemed less and less real every week that slid by. The place from which he'd come that had been ripped away from him by a super soldier serum that had refused to allow him the rest he craved.

People forgot that Steve Rogers hadn't gone to war during World War II; they forgot he'd been fighting since the moment of his premature birth, and God was he tired. Sometimes finding the strength to get out of bed seemed impossible, but he continued the slog. There was nothing else he could do.

So Steve grabbed the six pack from the fridge and deposited it on the table on his way across the room to the wall of windows where he looked out over the dense jungle. Through the mist would be the royal palace, but one couldn't see it on a rainy day like today. The foliage and the fog obscured it.

T'challa had moved them from the palace to a bunker buried in the side of the mountain, their view of the outside world limited to the windows that allowed them to watch life in Wakanda continue. Moving them had been a security precaution, he was sure. If Mr. Stark ever stopped to pay a visit, there would be no danger of him happening upon one of them. Also, he was pretty sure Chai, as Sam so eloquently had nicknamed him, had caught Scott trying to sneak into the vaults once.

He saw Sam's reflection in the glass long before the other man came to stand by his shoulder. “Did you bite it, too?”

“Yep. I'm thinking Left 4 Dead is a game for the younger person.”

“Got news for you, Clint's older than you, buddy.”

“Pretty sure Clint stopped maturing when he was fourteen.”

Steve laughed and propped his shoulder up against Sam's.

They enjoyed the view for a few minutes, their gazes greeted by the massive obsidian statue of a snarling panther that seemed to move through the mist. T'Challa had once told him the statue represented Bast, the panther god who protected Wakanda and it's rich rainforests and vibranium deposits. Supposedly Bast prowled the deepest parts of the jungles, and every future king and queen was called upon to face the avatar of their god's spirit to be accepted as worthy.

“How you doing, man?”

“Fine.”

“Steve.”

And he heard the disapproval in his friend's tone. Of course Sam disapproved. He thought they all needed to be in therapy, and maybe they did. Maybe a therapist could teach them new ways to process their thoughts, but Steve came from a world where therapy equaled a bottle of hooch and a dolly who would make you forget your own name for a dollar. Fuck knew he'd eased his needs with prostitutes more than once in his bleak youth.

“I'm fine.”

“You really think saying that enough times is gonna make us believe it? You aren't fine. I'd be a lot more worried about you if you were.”

So Sam had his number. Big deal. He turned and clasped his companion's shoulder. “Sam, you're a good man. I appreciate that you care about me, but stop psychoanalyzing me in your spare time.”

He flashed an attempt at a reassuring smile and started to move away.

“You don't pay me enough to psychoanalyze your repressed ass. Oh. Wait. You don't pay me at all!”

Steve shot finger-guns back at Sam and took the stairs down to The Tomb. Doors swished open at his approach, allowing him to shuffle inside to stand in front of Bucky. His past. The person who'd been there during the roughest years of Steve's life. The one he'd most failed. The only one who mattered.

Gazing at the peaceful expression on Bucky's face caused fingers of dread to worm their way into his heart. This fight, he couldn't fail. It was his last chance to do something worthwhile, to save the person who'd been saving him since they were school-aged kids whooping up on Ed Findley, who'd been three grades older and intent on stealing everyone's lunch.

It wasn't until his knuckles started aching that he realized he'd been squeezing hands into fists hard enough for joints to creak. A flash of emotion speared through the nostalgia: Anger. He was so, so angry. At himself, at Stark, at General Ross, at the UN, at the people who took for granted the Avengers would always be there to save their necks when the fighting got started. At Bucky. Bucky, who had left, this time of his own volition. He'd given up the fight and gone AWOL, gone to where Steve couldn't follow.

The nearby speakers clicked moments before Clint spoke through them. “Nat's here. Thought you might wanna know. She brought intel on a Hydra cell.”

Hydra. He was so fucking sick of Hydra and their sticky fingers slithering throughout the fabric of modern society. Who in their right mind had recruited Arnim Zola to work in American intelligence? That person needed to be found and beaten to within an inch of their life.

Fingertips lingered on the glass of Bucky's cryostasis chamber before he pulled away.

Seeing Nat for the first time since the battle at the airport startled him. She'd buzzed her hair down military short and frosted the remaining fuzz snow white. Her cheeks were sprinkled with freckles, and she had two dahlia bite piercings, each corner of her mouth decorated with a black stud. She wore ratty jean shorts with a wide, black belt and thick wedges on her feet.

“When you said you needed to reinvent yourself, I didn't know this was what you meant.” He indicated her general appearance.

Nat tongued at one of her piercings from the inside of her mouth and shrugged. “What can I say? I needed a life change. You know. Working for bad people. Thinking I'm working for good people but really working for more bad people. Joined this club called the Avengers and thought that was going to stick, but then our Mom and Dad got in an epic fight, and that went down the tubes. Betrayed Dad. Betrayed Mom. Went on the run to escape General Rusty Buckets.”

He laughed and opened his arms.

She looked hesitant.

“Bring it in, Nat.”

Finally, she took three hurried steps into his arms and wrapped hers around his waist. “I am so, so sorry I doubted you for a minute.”

“Hey.” One big palm chafed up and down her back. “None of that. You made your own choice. Sure, it hurt like Hell, but I'm a big boy. All any of us can do is what we think is right.”

“Still spouting Cap-isms, huh?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Sam interrupted from the doorway.

She pulled out of Steve's embrace to run into Sam's. “You're all right? Ross didn't torture you?”

“Depends on your definition of torture. Five minutes with him was enough to make me start spouting rank and service number.”

That made her laugh, and she snuggled her cheek into Sam's chest. “Sorry, Steve, but Sam gives the best hugs. I'm staying for a few days just to stock up.”

Steve held up his hands in surrender. “No arguments there.”

There was only one thing that could trump—and there was a word that needed to be stricken from the English vocabulary—Sam's hugs. That arrived in the form of Clint Barton, and Nat quickly abandoned the hug in favor of charging Clint, who caught her around the middle. She wound her legs around his waist in the perfect impression of a koala.

“I come bearing gifts,” she murmured.

Once the pair separated, she reached into her messenger bag to produce a stack of letters that were all addressed to Clint in child-like handwriting. Steve grimaced at the spear lodged in his gut for having separated Clint from his family and Scott from his daughter.

Eagerly, Clint snatched the packet of letters and moved a few feet away to drop onto a raised wall. He tore open the first letter to scan the contents, various emotions playing out across his visage. One moment he laughed. The next, he grimaced. Then moisture made his eyes shine, and he glanced at the flagstones to escape whatever bad news had arrived.

“You have information on a Hydra cell?” Steve asked after a sufficient time had passed.

“Yeah. Operating out of Cambodia. Rumor has it that was Barnes' last stop before being shipped to America under the control of Alexander Pierce. From what I hear, Hydra's still looking for their lost asset and are keen to re-appropriate him. Means they might not have destroyed all his files.”

“We leave in the morning,” Steve said.

“That such a good idea, Cap?” asked Clint with a rough voice. “Not for nothing, but that's what got the Avengers in trouble in the first place. Crossing sovereign borders without appropriate permissions. Maybe we should lay low until the Taskforce ain't so keen to arrest supers.”

“You don't stop trying to save the world just because certain people don't like the way you're saving it.”

Silence.

Then Clint said, “You know what Stark said to me when he visited the Raft? I shoulda thought about my family before breaking the law. I'm just saying we need to think carefully about how we go about doing things now, and we aren't going to Cambodia to save the world. Just one man.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

“Some laws need to be broken. Thought you understood that.”

Clint bristled and stood. “Yeah, I understood it when we were taking on a bunch of Winter Soldiers who coulda toppled world governments. The risk was worth the reward. This is different.”

“How? Injustice is injustice.”

“Maybe. But you're not the one separated from his family. You're not the one who sacrificed the most on what turned out to be an empty threat. Some of us got families to think about. Some of us have got a lot to lose. When's the last time you ever sacrificed for your convictions?”

“Boys...” Nat moved like a fight was about to break out and it was her duty to intervene.

Sam immediately said, “You're outta line, Clint. We all know what Steve gave up to save the world.”

“But he wasn't saving the world. Just his best friend. Again.” That statement hanged in the air for several long moments before Clint continued, “Look at the pattern. You disobeyed orders from command and went off half-cocked to Austria to save him the first time. You lied on enlistment forms because you were so desperate to prove yourself you were willing to endanger soldiers who woulda been asigned to fight with you and who woulda had to take up for your slack.”

Steve clenched hands into fists and couldn't stop the jumping muscle in his steel trap of a jaw.

“Don't get me wrong. You're a good guy, Steve. I've followed you into the gates of Hell before, but I'm thinking maybe you need to take a sec and figure out where your head's at, make sure the road we're going down's worth risking our families again.”

Several minutes passed while Steve struggled with his notoriously hot temper. Eventually, he said, “I'm going to Cambodia to dismantle a Hydra cell and hopefully find information that will heal a good man who was tortured and held as a POW for the past seventy years. This is a volunteer-only mission. I'm not ordering anyone to go but myself. You're all free to decide whether you want to join me.”

By the time he turned up in his new tactical uniform, a deep navy in color with a single bronze star over his heart and no A on the helmet, he was surprised to see everyone gathered outside a Wakanda jet, including Clint. Steve nodded at them before boarding and was pleased to find Natasha already in the cockpit and dressed to kill in her Widow uniform. It was a little startling to see her white fuzz in combination with that uniform.

He buckled in, leaving Clint to take the bitch seat beside his friend. It was in no way a surprise when Sam plopped next to him in his old uniform and wing pack.

“I don't need a pep talk.”

“Tough. Clint said some things that couldn't have been easy to hear.”

“You agree with him?”

“Doesn't matter, man. What matters is whether or not you agree with him.”

“Remember that thing I said about psychoanalyzing your friends?”

Sam gnawed on the bone by saying, “When are you gonna talk about the Accords and Siberia? Man, you can't keep that shit bottled up, Steve. It's gonna eat you alive.”

Steve slammed the door on that conversation by shoving to his feet to extricate himself from Sam's persistent nagging, gathering extra ammo for his sidearm to excuse the abrupt end of their conversation. But Sam being who he was couldn't take a hint.

“You have to process that shit or it's going to turn poisonous.”

“Sam, I'm fine. Stop worrying. Things have been awful, and we've been hit with a mountain of bad luck at once, but I'm staying focused on what needs to be done: getting Bucky back to full health and figuring out how to continue doing our jobs despite the new obstacles against us.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Steve.”

*

Incendiary devices exploded on all sides. The rat-a-tat of gunfire greeted their arrival, and the Secret Avengers were forced into constant motion to avoid taking a hit. Steve dodged. With liquid grace, he launched himself over a downed jeep, flying over it feet-first before rolling around the Hydra agent perched behind it. He was water tumbling across rocks, frothing around sharp bends.

Nothing felt so good as knowing his science-experiment body made a difference. Fighting was the only thing it was made for. So he battled; he planted his feet like a male lion establishing dominance over his surroundings. He dug claws into the rich soil, spread his shoulders wide, and went to war.

Not having the shield was something to become used to. Where he would have ducked behind its impenetrable safety, he found himself taking risks. Where he would have bashed apart a knot of soldiers, he used his body like a bullet. Where a bullet would have ricocheted off the shield, his shoulder took the impact. With gritted teeth and shoulders cloaked in Hellfire, he ignored the pain of his injury, ignored the crimson stain on his uniform, and drove the heel of his palm into a man's nose.

“Cap, Scott's successfully past their defenses,” Wanda informed him via their communication devices.

“Sam, how are we looking up top?” he asked.

The faint fuel trails of Sam's jet pack ghosted lines behind him as he wove through anti-aircraft explosions. “Like we're being shot at. Again.” Falcon swung around and dropped a grenade into one of the gun turrets.

A breath passed.

An explosion took out the tower and the gun lobbing death toward them. It belched fire. Men and women threw themselves from the towers to escape the flames.

Steve curled himself like a pill bug and rolled through an armored blockade, coming up on the other side to toss a grenade into the outpost. He had just enough time to hunker down behind a nearby shed before the incendiary went off. Dying screams snaked through the detonation.

A gun cocked.

Steve spun around, his own weapon already in hand. The barrel pressed into a woman's cheek. She froze. A flash of horror dilated her eyes. It fled as quickly as it came, replaced by grim determination. His gun barked long before she could formulate a counter-move. Point blank, the bullet ripped through her cheekbone and blew a hole through the back of her skull.

Blood and gore painted the concrete wall behind her, a message to his enemies that his former rules of engagement had collapsed, crumbled beneath the horror they'd meted out against Bucky. They had killed that Steve Rogers. They had utterly destroyed him. Henceforth, he would fight fire with fire.

“Scott has the south entrance open,” Wanda informed them.

“Sam, Clint, keep our exit routes open. Nat and Wanda, you're with me. Infiltrate the base.”

Steve led the charge through the gaping doorway to the south of the building, the red stain on his shoulder a beacon to his enemies. They plunged into Hydra's rotting carcass like a pack of hyenas tearing chunks of flesh from a carcass. Muzzle first. Fangs agleam and stained pink. Until they reached the prey's steaming innards.

He paced the length of the laboratory they tore their way into. It was filled with technicians and scientists, men and women who weren't trained for fighting but were still responsible for more hurt than the rank and file who came beneath them. He imagined the clack-a-clack of his claws against the concrete flooring while the Black Widow went about downloading information from their hard drives onto a flash drive. Wanda, meanwhile, raided rows of filing cabinets looking for hard copy information that might help Bucky's mental state.

Pausing in front of a particular technician allowed him to look into their eyes, to plunge beneath the milquetoast exterior in search of something vicious. Surely Satan swam inside those pupils. Nothing normal could drive an individual to treat another individual like a thing to be pointed at their enemies.

“Got it,” Nat exclaimed.

All he could acknowledge was the steady thump of his heart. All he could see was the technician's hands strapping Bucky into that chair. Had they pulled the trigger? Had they been responsible for frying Bucky with innumerable volts of electricity? Had they ripped away memories one stitch at a time? Had they treated him like a thing? Like a piece of meat? Like a sniper rifle good for nothing but the number of times it could squeeze a trigger?

“Captain,” snapped Nat.

He jerked and finally tore his focus away from its current target.

“We're ready to extract.”

He nodded once.

“What do we do with them?” Wanda moved her hand toward the gathered scientists.

It was muscle memory, he thought when he caught himself about to give the order to call it in so S.H.I.E.L.D could send a team to deal with them in a lawful manner. That was the only explanation for why he even considered treating them as though they deserved the dignity of an arrest. He turned away from them and said on his way out, “Scott get those charges set?”

Nat responded in the affirmative.

Once his team members were outside the blast door, he punched a button lowering it into place. Then, he destroyed the controls, preventing the mechanical functions from being activated.

“Steve?” asked Nat, though she sounded like she wasn't sure what she meant to ask.

He settled a hand on the middle of her back and ushered her and Wanda out the way they'd come. Only when he set foot outside the building and checked in on the location of his team did he press the button that activated the charges. It took seconds for the explosion to register, and the back-draft brought the building down on everyone still inside.

Worried expressions painted the faces of Sam and Nat. He ignored them.

“Fall back to Wakanda where we start analyzing the data.”

*

That night, back in his bed in T'Challa's grand city, he woke tangled in damp sheets. His heart thundered to the drum of Man 'O War's hoof beats pounding the dirt around Belmont's oval. And when it felt like his chest couldn't contain the stress any longer, an awful sob raked up his throat. He turned, buried his face into his pillow, and wept between great, gasping breaths.

He couldn't be sure why, exactly, he wept. Maybe it was over losing Bucky again. Maybe it was over their lost innocence and the realization they couldn't ever be the men who'd prowled the streets of Brooklyn looking for trouble. Maybe it was the remnants of a nightmare, the ghost-like images of pressing Tony into the concrete and cracking his turtle shell, of the horror in Tony's eyes in that instant before Steve changed trajectories and destroyed the suit's reactor instead of Tony's face.

What he knew for certain was that his heart ached, and nothing in modern medicine could treat it.

Eventually, he slipped back into slumber only to wake the following morning with a fever, something he hadn't expected to experience again. It had been so long he questioned his own interpretation of his body, but the chills causing him to quake couldn't be ascribed to anything else.

Rather than going to the physicians, he dressed for his normal routine and found himself standing inside the Tomb with no real recollection as to how he'd gotten there. Bucky looked as peaceful as Sleeping Beauty. Like Snow White inside her glass coffin awaiting the touch of true love's first kiss.

“Bucky,” he breathed, “I'm gonna get you out of there. I'm gonna make things right.”

He draped himself against the glass, pressed his burning face against the cool surface, and some part of him thought he could become incorporeal, could ghost himself through and snuggle into Snow White's frigid embrace. Home. He could go home to the ice, and they could finally be together.

Tears stung his eyes just thinking about home. Home wasn't his apartment at Avengers Tower. It wasn't their new base of operations in Wakanda. It wasn't even Brooklyn circa nineteen forty-two. The fact was that he'd spent more time in the ice than he had in either reality, so part of him understood Bucky's desire to return there. Didn't really make the separation any easier.

“Steve, we need to t-- What the Hell is wrong with your face?” exclaimed Sam.

“Nothing.” His reply was automatic.

“Bullshit.” Sam's palm cupped his exposed cheek. The man hissed. “You're burning up. You shouldn't be fevered with the serum. I'm taking you to the infirmary.”

“That's not necessary.”

“For fuck's sake, Cap.”

Steve snapped his attention toward the other man, who had never used that tone of voice with him before. “Did you just curse at me?”

“Look, there was an attack on the Vibranium mines last night. Something about white gorillas. Now, don't get me wrong. I totally flipped out and shrieked 'Amy want green drop drink,' then cried about man-eating white gorillas trained to protect Solomon's mine. The point is that I don't have time to coax you into doing what's best for your health. You're going to the infirmary. I'm going to help Chai.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“You know. Congo? Movie about a talking gorilla. Dude. Put it on the list.”

“So there was an attack? Why didn't anyone inform me? What if the attack is related to our presence?”

“Cool it, man. Not everything revolves around your boy here. It's a terrorist attack, something the Wakandans have dealt with before.”

“Then you'll need an extra pair of hands. God knows he deserves our support after putting up with us.”

Sam gave him that look, the one Steve knew first hand had been modeled after his friend's mother, who knew how to stare a soul down with as much conviction as a statue dedicated to the Virgin Mary. That look had never failed to impress him whenever they had dinner with Mama Wilson, and it didn't fail when Sam employed it either.

Next thing Steve knew, he was in the infirmary having his temperature taken by the head physician, a man named M'Baye, who announced his temperature as one hundred ten and immediately ordered full Hazmat containment and environmental suits when handling Steve. He was moved to quarantine for fear he was infected with a super-bug strong enough to outmaneuver his serum-enhanced immunity.

Having lunch brought to him by a nurse dressed in what looked like a space suit wasn't ideal, but he picked through what was offered. He caught the tail end of the young man saying to a companion, “Did you see how much it takes to feed that guy? Bet we all wished we had his metabolism.”

It struck a nerve that had been exposed long ago. Normal didn't include one grown man eating three cheeseburgers and two orders of onion rings. Normal wasn't the guy who could put away two large pizzas in a sitting without gaining an ounce of fat. People stared at things that weren't normal.

Those few words sent him spiraling back to the early days when he'd moved into Avengers Tower and the rest of the Avengers had made fun of the amount of food he could pack away. It brought back memories of the USO tour and a culture just coming out of the Great Depression where people whispered behind their hands about Captain America eating more food than his share, of being surrounded by gaunt faces filled with hunger in shanty towns, of the extreme rationing going on in England and people who had nothing offering him more than they had to fill his never-full stomach.

So he refused the dinner tray that was delivered that evening, citing an unsettled stomach. It worked on the Wakandans the same way it had worked on the Avengers during the first few months of their co-habitation in Avengers Tower. The last thing he needed was having his caloric intake critiqued. Steve rolled onto his side, tucked hands beneath cheek, and ignored the queasy grumble of unhappy hunger.

Breakfast was greeted with equal apathy the following morning. Then, later, M'baye returned to take blood work to be sent to the lab and commented on the skipped meals.

Steve brushed off the concern. His body was a contradiction, unhappy without regular food but still capable of going without for a much longer period than a normal human, so he wasn't concerned with the idea of starving to death. Ignoring an empty stomach cramped with hunger was nothing compared to surviving scarlet fever and rheumatic fever.

In the end, his blood work came back normal. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and the fever broke after forty-eight hours, allowing his temperature to return to its normal one hundred point six. He wasn't released, though, until he'd gone a day without spiking another fever.

After being released, he went straight back to their underground bunker and its stocked pantry. He meant only to take enough to see him through the end of the day, but memories of growing up triggered old hoarding instincts. Hoarding food meant he would have something to eat later when times were lean. So he grabbed a shopping bag. Filled it with a veritable feast. Jars of peanut butter, squeezable bottles of jelly, loaves of bread, Sam's baked vegetable chips, whole bags of miniature candy bars. He grabbed what he could carry and closeted himself inside his room.

And if he happened to consume a whopping ten thousand calories in one afternoon, well, his normal caloric intake wasn't much lower than that. He stuffed himself full, shoved the remnants over the side of the bed, and buried himself under the blankets to sleep. When he slept, he could forget that Bucky had left him. When he slept, he didn't have to live in a reality where the Avengers had been torn in half, where Tony hated him and he hated Tony, where Peggy was rotting under the ground and the only meaning he had left in the world had been stripped from him.

He could still hear Tony's voice crying, _“That shield doesn't belong to you. You don't deserve it. My father made that shield.”_

A soft sound escaped, and he pressed his knuckles against his mouth to bite back the things he wished he'd said. Things like, _“I'm the one who fought and bled behind this shield.”_ And _“This shield is a part of me. They made this shield a part of me.”_ And then quieter, for his own ears, _“Don't make me give it up. I'm not anything if I'm not Captain America.”_ He hadn't said any of that and could still remember the hollow sound of it clanging against the concrete, a sacrifice to a man responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths given Tony's work in the arms race.

He should have said that. He should have looked Tony in the eye and said, _“How many mothers have you left without their sons and daughters? How many children have you left without their parents? How many Tony Starks have you created mourning for lost loved ones?”_ And Tony would have said, _“As soon as I knew about my weapons being sold to the enemy, I shut it down.”_ And Steve would have said, _“Weapons don't have the capacity to shut themselves down. You shut the division down, the maker shut it down. Bucky's CEO wouldn't. Blame him, not the thing that had no choice.”_

Then maybe they would have had a chance to talk things through and prevent the fissure from broadening. Or maybe not. Tony had been driven by revenge, and revenge was blind to logic. No force on Earth could have stopped Steve from protecting Bucky with every breath in his body. Maybe the split had always been meant to happen. Maybe Tony and he were too different and them being on opposite sides had been written in the stars. Maybe they were star-crossed lovers destined to die before healing the rift between two great houses.

Finally, sleep came with open arms to embrace him, and he sagged into her bosom. He awoke screaming for Bucky, hand stretched toward the emptiness where the man had once been. Below him? Snow and ice and the fires of Hell belching through a chasm.

Someone banged on his door. He shuddered. The door slammed inward. It wasn't Bucky. Bucky wasn't standing in his doorway gilded by the hallway light. It was Natasha who rushed into his room and crawled into bed with him. It was Natasha who pulled his head into her lap. It was Natasha who crooned in that husky voice of hers. It was Natasha whose hand stroked his sweaty hair and smoothed the long, straight column of his spine.

She sang to him in Russian, but the words didn't matter. What mattered was the soft cadence of her voice and the oddly maternal way she held him, bred from being the eldest widow in a class full of girls younger than her, girls who woke themselves sobbing from the day's lessons that slowly stripped away their humanity. In many ways, he felt the same. Slowly, through the passing of an ice age, he was becoming something other than Steve Rogers.

He turned his face into her lap and wept until there was noting left to give and he had been bled dry. What remained was the desiccated husk of a man once known as Captain America. Then, softly, he murmured into her skin, “I'm fine, Nat. Everything's fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on tumblr. I'm [Marley Mortis](http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/)


	2. a n g e r

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve Rogers's anger begins bleeding onto those surrounding him, and he seeks solitude in the jungles of Wakanda

“You left!” The clack-a-clack of his beast claws punctuated each step inside the Tomb. He whirled and changed directions, unable to contain the sheer force of the storm eating away at his insides.

“You left me in Brooklyn. You left me in the Alps. You left me on the banks of the Potomac. You left me here in Wakanda. What is wrong with me that you keep leaving?”

Finally, he stilled in front of the cryostasis pod and rested his forehead against the glass. “Sorry, Buck. Keep making your leaving about me when it was probably about you. Guess I just always knew I wasn't gonna be enough for you at some point. I don't blame you, you know, for looking terrified when I told you how I felt about you.” He pressed a hand against his chest over the triphammer of his heart.

“After all, it's really my fault you're in this mess to begin with. Pinnacle of human capacity, they said. Strongest man on the planet, they said. Still wasn't enough to stretch those two extra inches to grab your hand. This is my fault, and I gotta make it right.”

His breath fogged the glass.

Seconds later, his pendulum rocked back toward anger, and he pushed away to pace the confines of the dark chamber, stopping now and then to glance at the angel frozen inside his capsule. Knowing he had anger problems and suddenly lacking the ability or desire to control it threw him off balance. 

He felt like he was going under the ice again, overwhelmed by the crack in the front windshield and that wall of frigid water hitting him in the face as his lungs struggled to take one last breath. Just one last gasp. Then, the silent scream and the ensuing panic of a body recognizing its impending mortality. Legs kicking despite his logical mind knowing there was no path to safety. Nothing, not his softest coo nor his sternest command, had gentled his body into accepting the inevitable.

Breath tripped out of control. Ribs acted as a bellows to fuel the conflagration burning up the dry husk at the core of his serum-enhanced body.

He whirled back toward the pod and snarled, “I want to hurt you the way you're hurting me, but I can't. To hurt you, I'd have to mean something to you.”

Desperate to relieve mounting tension, he slammed his hand down on part of the stasis pod. Sharp pain seared through his palm. He jerked his hand away, finding two points of blood on his palm that quickly led him to a pair of bolts that hadn't been properly fitted during construction. The pointy ends emerged from metal and now glistened with his blood.

“Is this what you want?” He showed Bucky the growing blood stain. “Will this hurt you? Will this make you feel anything? Will this fucking hurt you like you've hurt me?”

Snarling his primal snarl, he slammed his palm down against the bolts again and yanked down to enlarge the wounds. Two canyons appeared that back-filled with crimson from the Red Sea.

“Does this hurt, Buck?”

He did it again, using the screws to rake furrows along his forearm.

“You didn't even try. You didn't even fight to stay with me. Is this what you wanted all along?”

Blood dripped from his fingers onto the concrete floor, but the sound was smothered by his ragged breathing and the sudden roar of the beast he was becoming. He slapped his palm against the glass. A bloody hand print appeared and smeared wetly when he dropped his hand again to his side.

The sound that escaped him after seeing the bloody palm print was much more whimper than scream. He pressed the same palm against his mouth—blood smeared there as well—and allowed his body to sag against glass where he rested, limp and drained, a male lion that had lost his battle for dominion.

“'M sorry,” he mewled. “I know. Sweetheart, I know I'm being selfish. So goddamn selfish all the time just like Clint said. You know that about me, don't you. Hell, even Tony knew that about me. Don't know how to live my life without a goddamn war.”

Appalled by his actions, he scrubbed away the blood on Bucky's sarcophagus, desperate to see it removed so as not to expose the man to any further trauma. When it was clean again, he pressed his cheek there, unmindful of the blood barely oozing from his healing wounds.

“It's 'cause I wasn't nothing before that war. You know that better than anybody. I wasn't anything 'til Erskine took a chance on me, just a kid from Brooklyn who couldn't even take care of himself. Had to rely on his best pal, and then he couldn't even be content with having him as his best pal, always wanted more. Got super jealous of all the dames he went stepping out with.”

He heard the faint click that preceded the communication system. It was followed by Clint's voice emanating from the speakers. “We're ready up here for you, Boss.”

A beat of silence passed as he remained lost in staring at Bucky's serene visage. Then he said, “Be up in a minute. Don't start the briefing 'til I get there.”

*

By the time he arrived in their meeting room, he had already cleaned up the blood, washed and dressed the healing wounds, and changed into a long-sleeved Under Armor shirt. He looked as presentable as he was going to given the situation and was glad to see the others were engaged in their own things upon his entrance. They looked up, though, when he arrived.

“Nat, what have you got?”

“It's not good.”

She pulled up holographic information on the data they'd taken from the Hydra base in Cambodia and spent the next three hours going through it piece by piece. There were mission and procedural logs for the care and keeping of the Asset. Everything from feeding schedules to proper thaw protocols, which included a fresh recalibration at the start of every active duty period. It involved hundreds of watts of electricity frying out Bucky's long term memory functions and intense conditioning to reinforce the Winter Soldier code words.

One scientist postulated that Zola's serum had enhanced the Asset's cellular regeneration. He healed faster, and the Hydra scientists were constantly finding new and inventive ways to retard the regrowth of his brain cells. That led to cryostasis. The body didn't heal as quickly in stasis. But like Steve's serum had kept him alive beneath the ice, Bucky's worked just enough for the Asset to need recalibration after every thaw.

The information ended abruptly back in the nineties, and it became clear then that Bucky had been moved from a previous facility to work out of Cambodia. That meant, his former base would contain older records. There was no indication in the Cambodia files as to the process that had made Bucky into a sleeper agent easily activated by a set of code words.

“I'm sorry there isn't more, Steve. We'll keep looking.”

Wanda touched Steve's forearm and prompted him to meet her eyes, eyes that were so gentle but deep as the ocean. A little smile bloomed, a flower in the desert. “Keep faith, Captain. We knew this wouldn't be an easy journey.”

“Don't stop believing,” Scott sing-songed and elbowed Wanda in the side.

It prompted her to laugh. “Hold on to that feeling.”

Clint took over. “Streetlight.” He tossed it to Sam.

“Oh, don't look at me.”

Clint then desperately glanced to Nat.

Nat offered up a put-upon sigh. “People.” She finished with a trio of ascending notes in a clear, commanding soprano.

Steve smiled through the flare of irritation their shenanigans caused. They meant well. Of course they did. Good intentions didn't stop the feeling that they belittled the very real mounting desperation driving him to the brink. They couldn't know their attempts to bring cheer would fall on deaf ears.

Later that evening, Wanda found him deep in their underground compound torturing a punching bag. He'd changed from his long sleeved shirt into something more comfortable for a work-out, but by then, the pink lines on his arm and palm were hardly noticeable. There was something unsatisfactory about how quickly the proof of his anger had abandoned him. Next time, they would need to be deeper.

Wanda was dressed for a lazy evening, a red maxi skirt and a long sweater. At some point, she'd cut holes in the sleeves to slide her thumbs through. That wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the bright orange monkey perched on her shoulder. Said monkey wound its arms around her head.

“You have a friend,” he said.

“I've started volunteering at the wildlife sanctuary here. Emem was born without a thumb and forefinger and can't live in the wild. Otherwise they wouldn't let me bring her home. You can't acclimate them to human contact and then turn them lose in the wild where they might walk up to a poacher. They must remain afraid of humans.”

“He's cute.”

Grinning, she unwound from around her wrist the leash clipped to the monkey's little harness. 

Emem jumped from Wanda's shoulder onto Steve's and settled there to comb through his hair.

“She likes you.”

“Shoulda known to mind my manners around a beautiful dame, huh? Shouldn't have just assumed you were a fella. What's up, doll? Smells like bananas? Blame Sam. He got me the wrong shampoo.”

The furred tail tickling beneath his chin prompted unexpected laughter. The sound of his laughter was foreign and felt like dissonance compared to the war drums beating below his skin.

“The maroon leaf monkeys are originally from Borneo, but their sanctuaries were full, and Emem's species isn't endangered. The sanctuary here rescued her before she could be euthanized. So now she lives here in Wakanda.”

“Euthanized?”

“Humanely killed.”

“They were willing to put to death a perfectly healthy animal over money for her care.”

Wanda got one of her penetrating looks that said she was reading more into his words than he would have liked. Her unwavering eye contact unsettled him, and he glanced away to return his attention to the punching bag suspended from the ceiling. He didn't like the idea that his thoughts weren't private.

Neither could he ignore the dangerous curl of an invasive voice that whispered its quiet longing to be an animal no one could afford to save. No last minute panic as he waited for death. No struggling, gasping, kicking legs as muscles fired on reflex, just the quiet lull of oncoming sleep from which he would never awake. Peace. And comfort. At some point in the distant future, someone would thaw Bucky, who would get to greet his new century carrying the weight of Steve's death.

He liked the symmetry of that, of Bucky carrying his spirit into the twenty-second century after he'd carried Bucky's into the twenty-first. Part of him could imagine the horror painted like a garish abstract across the man's face when he was told, _“Less than a year after you went under, Steve Rogers laid down and went to sleep. He never woke. We buried him in the plot his ma had paid for expecting her son not to survive infancy. You can find him nestled between Sarah and Joseph Rogers.”_

Only Emem seemed discontent with the current track of his thoughts and tugged a little more harshly on a clump of his hair. He squirreled his face up in a sour look over being interrupted. The monkey palmed his nose while reaching for a piece of dried fruit Wanda carried in a baggie.

“Would you like to sit with her tonight? She's very easy to take care of. There are diapers she wears to keep her from messing everywhere.”

Maybe for one second he allowed himself to fantasize about curling up with something soft and fluffy, but the concept seemed so out of tune with his reality that he knew he would never sleep. Soft things had no place in the life of a soldier. He destroyed gentleness just like he destroyed everything else.

“I don't think so, but thank you for the offer. Could you please?” He indicated moving the monkey off his shoulder, as Emem seemed to have settled in for the long haul.

Wanda hesitated. Eventually, she complied by coaxing Emem onto her own shoulder. She settled a hand on Steve's forearm to offer up a moment of contact, and those eyes of hers went back to drilling into his conscious like she could expose every ounce of his turmoil.

“Stop,” he snapped.

A brow arched in question.

“Stop staring at me like you know what I'm thinking.”

“Do I? I hadn't noticed.”

A soft curse slipped out, and he jerked at the tape around his wrists, retreating to escape her disquieting presence, that silent accusation that mocked him. After all, she had volunteered to become an experiment of Hydra. Bucky had been given no such choice.

 _“Yes,”_ cried the beast with its wild mane and its clack-a-clack claws. _“Be angry that she was given the choice and came out whole. Be angry that Bucky wasn't given the choice and is now lost to the ice.”_

He wanted to say, _“He's not lost. We'll find a way to help him.”_ He wanted to cry, _“I'm not giving up.”_ He wanted to scream, _“We won't let Hydra win!”_ But the part of him that was still Steve Rogers went down on his belly in front of the beast and spread his limbs wide.

*

One of the worst things about suddenly being thrust into a non-combatant role was boredom. There weren't many options for filling his day. The others played video games. Wanda volunteered at the rescue. Clint spent as much time as he could video-conferencing with Laura and the kids. Scott explored Wakanda. Sam's mom was presently visiting the country, so he was showing her around.

Steve, though? He tried reading but couldn't concentrate for long periods of time. He had briefly tried painting, but being artistic brought so many memories from before that it wasn't worth the bad mood it conjured. Sports were too competitive. His fingers felt too clumsy for an instrument thanks to left-over reminders of trying to relearn sketching after the serum had affected how he gripped a pencil. He'd been forbidden from social media (probably because a whole bunch of people had a whole lot to say about Captain America becoming a traitor to the United States).

That meant he had huge stretches of time with nothing to occupy himself, time which was spent staring at the ceiling or sitting in the Tomb glaring through the glass, palm impaled on the screws he'd found, blood streaming down his forearm as he sacrificed of his own body to somehow hurt the one who'd hurt him most. If he could just-- If there was a way to excise--

“Why did you leave me?” he shouted.

Before he could make a conscious choice, he flung the chair he'd been sitting in at the cryostasis unit. It hit with a hard thud and clattered to the ground, but the glass surface remained unmarred. Upon realizing what he'd done, what he'd risked, he dropped to his knees and wept. He knee-walked over to the unit and stretched his arms as wide as they would go to embrace Bucky, or what he could of Bucky. 

“I'm sorry. God damn my temper.”

He pillowed his cheek against the cool glass and rested there until the emotions eased enough for him to get back to his feet. “I'm so sorry. You should know by now that you can't rely on me.” He huffed a bit of morbid amusement. “Just ask Peggy. Couldn't even rely on me to make it to one damn date. She's dead, you know.”

Quiet swallowed up his comment.

“Yeah, died just before the explosion at the UN. I was at her funeral when I saw the news you were wanted in connection with the bombing. Now there was a fine lady. Best damn person on the planet. Present company excluded. She knew what it was really like to fight for what she wanted outta life.”

Nothing responded but the gentle hum of the power cores keeping the unit going.

“I coulda married her, Buck. You know, two guys and all. Society wouldn't have let it work for you and me even if I thought for a second you returned my... whatever it is. But I coulda married Peggy and been content with life. Can't have that, though. Greedy little fucker like me? Guys like me don't get to have their cake and eat it too.

“Then I kissed Sharon. God, that was stupid. I like Sharon well enough, and I think maybe we coulda been something together. Probably couldn't have got over her lying, though, when she was assigned to keep an eye on me. I think I respect her more than I have any kind of feelings for her. It'd be a little weird, you know, taking up with Sharon after falling head over heels for her aunt.”

He huffed again and picked at a loose cuticle. It peeled up and left blood in its wake but was quick to heal. “So yeah. I guess I'm just not one of them fellas who can be close to people anymore. Guess I never was. All them dames you set me up with back in the day, they were smart to high tail it.”

He scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“So yeah. Peggy's dead. Captain America's dead. Bucky Barnes might as well be dead. Now I've got all these people looking to me to right their situation. Thought maybe I'd bargain or their freedom and turn myself in, but we all know General Ross. He makes promises in one hand while looking to stab you in the back with the other.”

Finally, he pushed to his feet with every intention of leaving but paused on the way to the door. “I'm gonna get you outta there, pal. I swear I'll get you outta there, and I'm gonna make every one of those bastards pay. I ain't Captain America anymore. Don't think you knew that I figured it out. You always did the depraved things because Captain America should be free to be a symbol. Well, I'm not that guy anymore, pal, and they're gonna burn.”

After leaving the Tomb, he made his way upstairs where he found the others gathered in the communal space playing a game on the console, all except Sam, who was still showing his mother a good time. They greeted him with unrestrained enthusiasm and asked him to join in. Honestly, he would have begged off except Scott gave him that hopeful face he hadn't learned to say no to yet.

He ran down the hall to his room to doctor the cuts on his arm. He opened the door. Said door bumped against the wall. A tremendous blare suddenly cut the silence. Next thing he knew, he was on the floor with forearm up in a defensive position to ward off an incoming mortar attack.

Then came the quiet.

Quiet bled into giggles from the other room.

Only then did he realize what had happened. They'd taped an air horn canister to the wall in a manner that guaranteed the door would activate the noise. Normally, he might have let it go. It was all in silly fun, but given his earlier mood, it struck the wrong cord, so when they crept to the head of the hallway and peeked around, he was in no mood for their amused snickering. 

“What the Hell?” he snapped.

“Come on, Cap, it was just a silly prank,” Clint ventured.

“For the last goddamn time, I am not Captain America anymore.”

“Cap?” Scott immediately corrected himself. “Sorry. Steve. It was just a prank. We thought it would cheer you up.”

“Well, it didn't, did it?”

He stomped inside to grab a backpack in which he stuffed a change of clothes and some other gear. A gun and ammunition joined it. Next, he threw in some water bottles and protein bars from the stash he'd taken to keeping in his room.

“Steve, come on.” Nat had been volunteered to try to smooth the road.

“No, I'm not gonna 'come on.' I don't have time for childish pranks.”

“What are you doing?” She moved her chin in the direction of his backpack.

“Going for a hike. I need to get outta here, get some fresh air.”

Nat's stare was less penetrating than Wanda's but no less effective in making him feel exposed. She leveled one on him and allowed the silence to carry for several long minutes before saying, “You'll stay within the boundaries of Wakanda's national forest?”

“Yes.”

After marching over to snatch his cell phone from the end table where it had been plugged in, she stuffed it deep into his backpack and made sure his weapon and ammunition were in working order. “You have two days. You don't come back in two days, I come looking for you.”

Then, her blessings given, she retreated from his room to speak with the others.

Steve slipped out, stuffing a note beneath the door of Sam's room on his way. It asked Sam to look after the others, said he was taking off for a couple of days to get his head on straight.

*

Being swallowed by the jungle of Wakanda was like slithering down the belly of a snake. Trees were all around him. Dense foliage prevented him from seeing very far in any direction. The night calls of various animals kept him dangling from the edge of a precipice. It was possible he'd done something rash by going unchaperoned into the claustrophobic confines.

That first night, he set up a makeshift camp at the base of a giant moabi tree, its canopy stretched out like an umbrella, but Steve made the classic mistake of hunkering down in the path of an ant army and woke to stinging bites licking fire up his nerve endings. He surged to his feet, but ants had crawled inside his clothing, forcing him to disrobe to sweep them all away.

Standing naked in the deep jungle, he huffed. Couldn't help but make the comparison between the ants and Hydra, the endless onslaught, the unstoppable momentum. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place. That saying had never meant as much to him as it did in those tense moments of the deep dark, and for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to think of a world where Hydra won.

Hadn't they already?

He'd given his life once to defeat them, a sacrifice that had ultimately failed. They'd taken everything, his future, his best friend, even the long-held optimism that had pushed him through years of struggle. Maybe, he thought, he wasn't so different from Tony Stark. _“I don't believe in no win situations.”_ Maybe, deep down, he had never recognized the possibility that it could all be for nothing, that he had spent the last eighty years breaking his bones against a wall that would never crumble.

Like a boiler with a leaky valve, he felt pressure building behind his eyes, pressure that thumped along with the beat of his heart. Hydra would win. Hydra had already won. Everything he'd given had come to nothing. There was nothing left but the grave, nothing but a long, cold future spent in hiding, and he couldn't stand it, and he couldn't restrain the building pressure any longer.

And there amidst the thick jungle, he threw back his mane and roared. The great chest science had given him expanded, ribs pressing against muscle pressing against skin. Those broad, broad shoulders unfurled. Legs like tree-trunks rooted into the soil amidst the ant highway, and he bellowed with his beast-like lungs and tore at the soil with his clack-a-clack claws.

Somewhere in the dense foliage, there came an answering roar.

Movement snared his attention. Science had cured his partial blindness. He could see better in low light than any other human on the planet, so when nearby shadows shifted, he tracked the motion in his peripheral vision. A breeze swept through, rustling foliage and turning branches into pendulums.

Breath billowing from his lungs, he froze. Whatever was moving came closer, the softest shuffle of the undergrowth as a ghost passed by. He pivoted in the direction of the noise.

It came from the left.

He swung to meet the oncoming attack.

It came from the right.

He backed into a defensive position against the tree until the rough bark scraped across bare skin.

It came from in front of him.

His beast mane wilted.

It came from all around him.

“Come out and face me,” he snarled into the darkness.

A flash of moonlight filtered through the canopy and gleamed against an inky coat, sharp shoulder blades lifting and lowering in a waltz older than the great palaces of Vienna, a long tail snaking through the undergrowth, paws stretched out across the soil.

“Face me,” he said again, hands clenched into fists.

Off in the distance, a rumble of thunder split the silence, and the ebony shadow disappeared, loped into the darkness which had birthed it, and Steve collapsed back against the tree. Shivers wracked him in the absence of adrenaline. He curled both arms around his body, sank to his knees, and allowed the ants to claim him. Their tiny footprints skittered up his bare skin. Sharp mandibles pricked him.

Then came the rain. Fat dollops bled through the evergreen foliage above him, and soon, he was soaked. The ants abandoned him in favor of scurrying along their path, climbing over each other until the jungle floor became a seething mass where everything moved.

He couldn't take it anymore and scrambled up into the canopy to escape their march where he stretched himself across a branch. That was where he stayed, silent, motionless, and he eventually got a couple hours of sleep in the quieter time just prior to dawn.

The first thing he noticed when he woke was the weight settled on him. His body tensed. Lying atop and around him was a snake, a python if he had to guess. It was motionless, absorbing the warmth of his body in preparation for sunning itself along the treetops at sunrise. He pressed his cheek into his forearm and waited for it to be on its way.

Only then did he jump down and inspect the gear he'd abandoned during the night. It was intact, so he dressed and shouldered his backpack, ate a protein bar, drank a bottle of water, and prepared to move. A plethora of birds kept him company throughout the day. They called across the rainforest, their cries joined by the vocalizations of Bonobo apes and the distant rumble of the river he'd been following.

He stayed near the river throughout the day, only meandering away when the terrain changed and forced him to climb to higher elevations. The isolation, however temporary, felt better than living under the expectations of his brothers and sisters in arms, and he soaked it up.

The others were waiting for him to break or improve, not that there was necessarily anything wrong with him. Maybe he suffered from an excess of boredom, and that boredom left him feeling irritable, but Steve Rogers didn't get to take the day off just because. So living beneath the circling vultures portending his imminent death was a strain. That's what they were: Vultures. With their great dark wings putting him in shadow. And he was the cat willing to strike at them when they came near.

So leaving was preferable to permanently damaging their friendships. It was the only way to keep from snapping, to protect them from his own temper. Just a couple of days. Then he would go back and be in a better frame of mind to handle their concern.

Steve stopped just after midday and realized he couldn't hear the river anymore. He poised on the balls of his feet and strained for the familiar, comforting sound, but the rainforest around him was eerily quiet. No bird songs. No river. No monkeys, just the gentle creak of trees shifting in the breeze.

Something like panic surged into his lungs; if he lost the river, he lost the way home. He didn't run. First rule of being lost was that you didn't run in a blind panic. He calmly about-faced and walked in the direction he'd come from, cresting the top of the hill he'd just come down to see if that would give him a vantage point from which to spy his route home.

Nothing. Just a sea of green in every direction. Green of the foliage. Brown of tree trunks. Shadow and sunshine. Good and evil.

He was lost.

 _“You've been lost for a long time,”_ came the phantom voice of Dr. Erskine.

And it was true. Ever since waking up in a new century surrounded by people who compromised, people who pledged allegiance to morality only to betray it the moment it didn't apply to them. He'd lost his way. He couldn't see the truth for the mistakes. He couldn't face living in a world where there was no black and white, where facts weren't facts but were “alternative facts.”

He was lost.

Then he was angry. He was angry that a group of S.H.I.E.L.D scientists had raised him from the ice, had woken him into a future where he had become a symbol used to justify oppression. They had woken him because Nick Fury wanted another asset in the field. Nick Fury wanted a symbol to legitimize his secrets. Just the way Bucky Barnes had been woken to live as Arnim Zola's symbol.

Wildly, he picked a random direction. Then he ran.

He ran until his lungs had trouble fueling the explosion of energy. He ran until his legs ached and his arms had to turned to jelly from pumping along his sides. He ran until he stumbled down a hill into a ravine where a little stream trickled across worn-smooth rocks.

There, he sat with hunched shoulders and an empty heart while the sun faded around him. 

Eventually, he moved to drink from the stream and refill his water bottles, his body going through the motions of sustaining itself even if his mind no longer cared. He swept the ground clear around the base of an Okoume tree to settle in for the night. In the morning, he would need to find his way back somehow, as Natasha's warning whispered from the back of his mind.

He was still Steve Rogers as long as Natasha Romanoff's threat could keep him in line, so he hunkered down, back pressed against the tree trunk and body ever-alert to the sounds of predators. The jungle came alive as night fell. Birds settled for the evening. Insects chirped. A tarantula skittered into its burrow. The snap-pop-crunch of something moving through the undergrowth no longer disturbed him but came as a welcome distraction.

Then marched the ants. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Millions of them. They trundled past to fuel their ever-growing horde, overwhelming everything in their path in the quest to serve their queen and ensure the future of their next generation. Just like Hydra.

They didn't disturb him so much that second night. He had grown used to their comings and goings and picked himself up to shift his position away from their highway as necessary. He built a fire at some point. Funny how much something as simple as a fire could lift the gloom. Logs popped now and then, collapsing into the inferno and sending skyward a shower of sparks.

That was when he saw it.

It moved in the shadows just beyond the range of his firelight. Its sleek body was a puddle of used oil on concrete: viscous in its density and mercury in its movements. A flicker of firelight caused its yellow eyes to glow. Like a flash of lightning, it struck, a wide paw crashing into Steve's hip and sending the man stumbling into a roll.

Steve allowed momentum to carry him away, and he rose in a crouch, arms akimbo, beast toes digging into the soil beneath him. He charged. Launched himself into the air to spin into a somersault, and came down behind the panther, but it moved as a viper, balancing on its hind legs in order to lash out with front paws. Claws tore into the Kevlar of Steve's uniform shirt. It parted easily.

Blood back-filled the gashes, and he struggled to regain his feet. He was winded from the strike, but something broke open in the depths of his body, a cyst bursting to spew its pus, and he roared.

The panther answered his roar with a primal snarl.

“He has lost his way,” the panther said, voice edged with a rumble.

Steve poised on the balls of his feet.

“He who nearly lifted the hammer of a Norse god has fallen.”

“I didn't come here for a self-help session.”

“He dares putrefy this holy ground with a soul stinking of rot and revenge.”

“Shut up!”

“He has lost his way.”

Steve lashed out with a meaty fist, but the panther slithered away.

“He is no longer worthy.”

Frantic, he finally launched himself head-first toward the creature. The panther charged at the same time. They clashed with the crack of a cymbal, muscle against muscle, bone against bone, two beasts with their wildness and their clack-a-clack claws. Steve's boots dug into the soil, but the panther pushed him back, one beast's heels digging furrows into the ground.

They went down. Steve jammed his forearm beneath the panther's head in an effort to keep its vicious fangs away from his face. It moved with ferocity. Its claws scrabbled for purchase, and finally, Steve lost his footing and went down beneath its onslaught. Then, all he could do was curl himself into a ball in some hopes of protecting his vital organs.

He awoke the next morning to the sound of an engine powering down. Cautiously, he uncurled himself and could hardly believe the panther had left him alive. There were signs of a struggle dotting the makeshift campsite, deep gouges where the panther's claws had flexed into the soil. He scrambled to check the wound on his ribs and found long, pearly scars where there had been blood the night before.

The cause for the engine became apparent moments later when a small craft descended through the foliage into the jungle's undergrowth. T'Challa, comfortable in his black panther get-up, popped the hatch and climbed out, toes curling into the soft soil when he dropped to the ground.

“You, my friend, are far off-course. Your people worry.”

He huffed and sat upright to start gathering his gear. “Suppose I wasn't really prepared for finding my way through a jungle. How'd you find me, anyway?”

“This is the sacred ground of Bast. There are sensors to prevent poachers.” The Wakandan king indicated one such sensor not thirty feet away. It blended so well into the undergrowth Steve hadn't noticed.

“Let us go home, Captain.”

Steve glanced around him once more, the eerie echoes of last night's struggle burned into his memory. He was no longer worthy. He should have snarled, _“I could have told you that.”_ Bast then would have said, _“Why is he no longer worthy.”_ And he would have responded, _“Because Erskine was wrong. I am not a good man. Good men aren't selfish. Good men don't lie to their friends to make their own lives easier. Good men would have saved their best friend from falling.”_

He wasn't a good man. And everything was fine.

*

A night in his own bed at the compound didn't do anything to erase the disturbing incident in the jungle. He felt sore and exhausted even after sleeping for twelve hours and woke with another fever. Left to his own devices, he would have remained in bed for the next twelve hours or at least until he didn't feel quite so awful, but Sam came to check on him.

The man flopped down on the edge of the bed. “Man, you don't look so good.” Concerned, the other man pressed his wrist against Steve's forehead. “Shit, you got another fever? I'm calling the doctor.”

“I don't need a goddamn doctor,” Steve said and threw back the covers to prove he was fine. One look in the mirror said he wasn't fine. His skin was so dry it had started flaking off along his jaw line, his fever so hot it seemed to be turning his skin to ash.

“No, you need a goddamn psychologist, but since you're a goddamn stubborn ass, I'll make do with a goddamn doctor. Now look what you did. We're both running around saying goddamn like it grows on trees.” Sam didn't get up from the bed.

“Sam, just leave me alone.”

Tony's phantom voice echoed in the hollow corridors of his mind. _“That shield doesn't belong to you. You don't deserve it. My father made that shield.”_

“I won't. Someone needs to take care of your ungrateful ass.”

So Steve lashed out in the worst way he could. “The way you took care of Riley?”

The expression on Sam's face slammed closed. It was almost frightening how blank he became in the wake of having his vulnerability exploited. Moments passed.

Steve knew he'd fucked up. “Sam, I--”

“Don't.” The man's jaw twitched. “Don't say another word. I know you're going through some shit right now, and I know that was your depression and desperation talking, but that is not okay. You are never allowed to hurt me because you're hurting yourself. I won't allow it.”

Rising, the man moved toward the door.

“Sam?”

“Call the doctor. Go to the infirmary. I'm going to go hit things in the gym to keep from hitting you.”

While he watched Sam leave, he could only think of one thing: Tony was right. He didn't deserve the shield. He didn't deserve Sam's friendship. He didn't deserve having Bucky in his life anymore. He didn't deserve to be worthy. He deserved a bullet in the brain.


	3. b a r g a i n i n g

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve Rogers strikes a deal with the Devil to save Bucky.

“What did you do?”

Steve barely heard Clint's voice above the thump-thump-thump of his fists hitting the punching bag. It swayed wildly. The chain suspending it from the ceiling groaned. His hits paused, and he listened to the quiet tread of the other man moving across the gymnasium.

“Sam's about the chillest penguin who ever chilled. There a reason he's pounding the pavement so hard he might put cracks in it?”

He paused again. The other Avenger had finally come within his peripheral field of vision, so he could see him leaning against a weight machine munching on a banana. 

“I said something awful.”

“You? Mr. Rogers? Get outta here. You know Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood right? Guy who wears cardigans with elbow patches and plays with puppets? God, I wish you were born in this century. Or at least the latter half of last century.”

“Is there something you needed, Clint?”

“Sure. I need a puppy. I need some new boots. I need to hug my-- Oh, you meant right this second.” White teeth flashed as Clint nipped off another bite of banana. A soft hum of contentment escaped before he tossed the peel into a nearby waste basket. “You know he didn't leave 'cause he wanted to, right? Tell me you know that much.”

“I know. He left because he was afraid--”

“You keep parroting that, buddy, but I'm thinking you don't really get it.”

Steve flexed his fists and went back to thumping the bag.

“What he decided? It wasn't about you.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you keep making it about you? The chances we're gonna find some magical formula to bring him outta the ice are about zero percent, but you keep focusing our efforts on taking Hydra bases. Don't get me wrong, dude, I'm all for sticking it to Hydra. But you do realize we're hitting them to make you feel better, right? Make you feel like you're doing something.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

Clint hummed. “Don't know, buddy. Seems to me like between the two of us, I got more first hand knowledge on brainwashing than you. What's gonna fix Barnes ain't in some user manual hidden in Hydra archives. It's in here.” Clint tapped his temple. “And here.” He tapped his chest.

“So what? I should just stop? Just give up? That what you're saying?”

“No, I'm saying you should do it for the right reasons. Guy like you? Vengeance ain't your deal. Vengeance is gonna kill you faster than a warhead 'cause it's gonna eat you alive. When Barnes wakes up, he's gonna want his best pal there.”

“Barnes wasn't drafted.”

“Huh?”

“Back during the war. Barnes wasn't drafted. He joined up. Couldn't stand being around some weak little shit stain. I'd just lost my job. Again. Bucky was pulling the majority of the money for our household expenses. We got in a fight over some stupid thing or other, and he stormed out. Came back with enlistment forms. He finally decided to go where I couldn't follow.

“You know what the shit thing is? I didn't realize that until I woke up in this century and got to reading online articles. Found out what the word 'punk' really means. A worthless person. In poor or bad condition. A young man used as a homosexual hook-up. I was sitting there going on and on about wanting to join up and do my duty. He must have thought I was pathetic.”

“Steve, I'm sure that's not what he meant.”

“Yeah? Then how come he's always leaving me?”

Their conversation had clearly out-paced Clint's ability to play Mother Hen.

Steve picked at the loose edge of the tape on his hands. “I told him just before he shipped out that final time. Told him he had to come back alive 'cause I was in love with him. God, the way he looked at me was so pathetic. Then when I rescued him in Austria, we just never mentioned it again.”

“Dude, you should be telling this shit to Sam. I got zero experience with this.”

“I know. I'll just go back to punching my bag.”

If he expected Clint to stop him, to try to hash out the conversation, that was not what happened. Clint clapped him on the shoulder and was on his way out when Nat's voice came over the intercom.

She said, “Hiya, Boys. Ready to take out another Hydra base.”

God, he was so ready.

*

Their newest target was one of the Red Skull's old bases located in Wartburg Castle near Eisenauch, Germany. The place was operated part time as a tourist destination and housed an art collection. Nothing about its exterior made it look like it had once given birth to something as insidious as Hydra, but looks could be deceiving, and most of Hydra's bases were operated out of legitimate businesses.

Natasha, Wanda, and Scott went in under cover as tourists taking one of the guided tours while the rest of them remained posted along the hillsides leading up to the castle. Steve had one ear paying attention to his surroundings and the other listening to the drone of the docent providing historical facts in English. Every now and then, Nat would remark on a possible entrance point into the base located beneath the castle.

Boredom was a fresh Hell, and Steve hadn't realized just how boring things were when he wasn't smashing into a location and busting heads with his shield. He was a man of action living in a world where espionage, where secrets, ruled the hour. It was no wonder the world had outpaced the need for Captain America. Sometime during the ice, he'd become a relic of a bygone era.

“Bailiff's quarters. Northwest side of the curtain wall,” Scott murmured into their comm devices.

“What have you got?” asked Steve.

“Behind a stack of barrels. I'm seeing a new thumb print scanner.”

Steve opened the flap on the miniature computer mounted on his wrist. “Pulling up your feed now.” He accessed the first person camera mounted to Scott's helmet to see what he was seeing. “Looks like it hasn't been accessed in a while. Nat, you got any intelligence on whose fingerprint might open that?”

“Someone here has to be Hydra. They wouldn't leave a base like this without oversight. We just have to find out which one. I'll start facial scanning. Tell me if you recognize any faces.”

Wanda cut into the feed, singing. “Say you don't know me or recognize my face.”

Scott joined in. “Say you don't care who goes to that kinda place.”

Wanda took over. “We built this city.”

And Scott followed up. “We built this city on rock an' roll.”

“Guys. Guys, come on. Stop subjecting Grandpa Rogers to your awful music taste,” said Sam.

The small smile that licked at his lips surprised Steve. “Can we just all agree that Sam has the best music repertoire of the group and move on?”

“Agreed,” Clint responded.

They went down the line until they came to Scott, who said, “Come on, guys. Marvin Gaye is working it and all, but let's talk about Escape Club.”

A series of groans emanated from their comms.

Natasha huffed something and finally checked in. “I have our ticket into the base.”

Steve pulled up her first person camera to get a look at a woman dressed in a docent's uniform, pencil skirt, dark hose, and a pair of sneakers. She had her hair pulled back in a peppy pony tail.

“Facial recognition places her as a base guard in Hydra's organization. She's responsible for the security of the base. Her prints will activate that scanner. You want me to bring her in?”

“Quietly. The rest of us will converge on Scott's location.”

Getting through the door wasn't the trouble. They were all dressed in street clothes and paid their entrance fee through the castle gate to meet Ant-Man in the bailiff's quarters, and Nat was a professional who turned up with their quarry. The lady didn't suspect a thing until the last second. By the time she had any inkling that something was wrong, Steve was already in position to snap her neck. Her weight sagged soundlessly into his arms, and he pressed the pad of her thumb against the scanner.

He ignored the looks his team members gave to each other and stepped onto a staircase descending into utter darkness. The screen of his cell phone illuminated the stairwell that ended at a door which required a key.

No big deal. Scott shrunk down and climbed into the locking mechanism, and moments later, they heard the clack of the tumbler turning, and Steve pushed the door open. Beyond, the space was illuminated by fluorescent lights, miles and miles of hallways full of doors branching around them. If they had expected it to be an easy search, they had been mistaken.

Half the team took off in one direction. The other half decided to go the opposite way, leaving Steve to shoot down the middle. Sam's quiet footfalls padded behind him. As they moved, they cleared each room. Most appeared to be various offices, but what they were looking for wouldn't be housed digitally. The records would be much older than that.

One thing they did discover was a weapons vault, allowing them to procure a few energy rifles to fill out their ammunition. They had traveled light, so their own ammunition wouldn't last long if it came to a fire fight. Something Bucky had told him in Bucharest came to mind. “It always ends in a fight.”

It ended in a fight. Hydra agents stopped them while they retreated from a corridor that ended in a blast door. They didn't have any way of accessing a code to open the door and were rerouting when a dozen or so agents arrived to blockade the end of the hall. Steve pushed in front of Sam. He might not have the shield anymore, but his body was still more durable than Sam's.

Chaos erupted around them, an explosion of gunfire as bullets peppered the hallway. Steve ducked low to the ground as they retreated back around the bend of the corridor. He used the wall as cover and returned fire while Sam retreated back toward the blast door.

“We're pinned down and under attack,” Sam said into their comm devices. “Anybody got any tricks to open a goddamn blast door?”

Steve popped around the corner to take a few shots when the incoming rounds died down a little.

“Whatever you do, don't shoot it,” responded Scott. “Just ask Luke Skywalker.”

Clint came back with, “Pop the cover off with your knife and tell me what colors the wires are.”

“Green. The wires are green.”

“Simple circuit lock then.”

“Simple?” Sam shouted. “That's a whole lotta fucking wires, man!”

Steve got off another couple of shots before holstering his spent sidearm and pulling one of the Hydra weapons from his shoulder. The agents had advanced into the hall by that point and were hiding behind riot shields. He flipped a switch to let the gun's charge increase, and when it peaked, he fired into the corridor. Damn near had his own hand shot in the process. The bullet whizzed past so close the skin of his thumb parted.

Next thing he knew, Sam grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and yanked him backward through the now-open blast door, at which point, he did something to the wiring in the second lock that caused the thing to slam down with enough force the room shuddered. A stray bullet made it through before the door could settle and impacted against flesh. Sam grunted.

Steve whirled around with a shout to find his friend sagging toward the ground with a bright bloom of blood saturating the thigh of his pant leg. Cursing, he dropped his weapon and went down beside the man. He opened the buckle of his belt.

“Man, I don't wanna see your junk 'fore I die. Getting shot isn't a romantic gesture.”

A flat look on his face, he wrapped the belt around Sam's leg and synched it tight to serve as a tourniquet. “Sam's been hit. Leg wound. It didn't hit the femoral artery.”

“We need to fall back,” Nat said. “This base is better defended than my intelligence suggested.”

“No! It could be our only opportunity. We're already inside and past their defenses.”

“Steve,” said Clint in such a way as to suggest he had more to say but was biting his tongue.

Seeing what he should do, what he would have done before, didn't make giving the order any easier. It might be the last chance they had to help Bucky. They wouldn't get a better opportunity. Something impacted against the blast door. Hydra was trying to break it down.

Teeth gritted, he finally glanced at their surroundings and was startled to find several light aircraft parked inside beneath a ceiling that looked to be hangar doors. Finally, he said, “Fall back. If you can get clear of the building, do it. I've got Sam's way out of here.”

No one questioned the way he stated it, not with the frenetic pace of battle all around them, so he hauled himself to his feet and hefted Sam up with an arm around the man's waist. The fact that Sam appeared relieved didn't sit well on his shoulders. Had Sam really thought he would choose to force Sam to remain behind and die?

They beat-feet toward the nearest of the aircraft, and Steve pounded up the metal stairs to open the hatch. He helped Sam get settled into the cockpit. “Can you figure out how to fly one of these things? 'Cause the only reason I know how to pilot a quinjet is because Nat made me learn.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it looks familiar enough. Get your ass in here, so we can get the Hell out of Dodge.”

The blast door squealed and cracked away from the floor.

Steve grabbed the hatch and slammed it shut, sealing Sam inside. Then, he used the butt of a rifle to break off the closing mechanism to prevent the other man from climbing back out.

“Steve!” Sam punched the plexiglass. “Don't you fucking do this, man.”

“See that button labeled 'öffnen?' It opens the hangar doors. Tell the team this was my choice. I gotta find some way to help him.”

“Open this goddamn hatch, Steve, or I swear to fuck...”

Another squeal as the blast door ascended again.

“Go on. Get outta here.”

The phantom voice of Bucky screamed, _“Not without you!”_

Sam simply flipped him the middle finger and fired up the aircraft's engine.

Steve hopped down from the metal stairs and hurried to find himself a more defensible position from which he could buy Sam enough time to take off safely. Hunkering down behind another aircraft, he shouldered a Hydra weapon and took out the legs of two agents using lifts to ratchet up the blast door.

“Steve, what are you doing?” Nat asked into his receiver. “This won't help Bucky. You need to get into one of those planes and take off.”

Rather than responding, he ripped the device out of his ear and crunched it beneath his boot heel. He'd lived through impossible odds before. This wouldn't be any different than the dozens of other times things had looked completely hopeless.

Moments later, the lift engines of Sam's aircraft turned down and blasted off, causing enough of a downdraft to lift the craft from its wheels. The overhead doors creaked and slid open, causing the central plaza of the castle's courtyard to open up. 

He got one more glimpse of Sam, whose expression was full of fire, before the man rocketed into the atmosphere. With Sam out of the picture and safely away, he took off directly toward the one foot gap between the blast door and the concrete and slid beneath it, coming up on the other side in the midst of Hydra's soldiers where he went to work.

*

The silence was only broken by an intermittent beeping that may have been his heart rate. Part of him expected to rouse to the familiar strains of a baseball game instead. He was groggy. His eyes were crusted with sleep and felt like sandpaper against the back of his eyelids. The beeping increased but was soon drowned out by voices speaking rapid German when he wasn't coherent enough to even begin making the translations to English.

He hovered there in between sleep and wakefulness for some time, content to drift through balmy waters where he could imagine Bucky was just getting into his shorts to join him for a lazy beach day. Then he remembered being called a punk and that horrified look on Buck's face after Steve said those fateful words. _“You gotta come back to be me, Bucky. I love you.”_

_“I love you, too, pal!” A hard hand clapped his shoulder._

_“No, you don't understand.” Steve's voice dipped, become soft and uncertain. “I love you.”_

_“Oh. You're--” A train whistle screeched. “Look, I gotta go. I'll write you, okay?”_

Bucky had written. Pages and pages of words about how the mud got everywhere and the awful boredom of spending weeks in camp waiting for marching orders. Weeks and weeks of nothing to do that were punctuated by short bursts of terror and the rat-a-tat of rifles discharging.

“Captain Rogers, wake up now.” The voice was tinged heavily with German.

Finally, he managed to lift his eyes and stare blearily at his surroundings. He was in what may have been a hospital ward. It was bright and smelled intensely of sanitizer. Various equipment was joined by television screens that were displaying what may have been his vitals or test results.

Then, he suddenly felt an overwhelming terror that he'd slept through another century, and as a result, he lurched toward a sitting position. Steel bands across his chest, hips, thighs, and shins prevented him from sitting up. They held him clamped to the hospital bed. And he wanted to scream, and he wanted to demand where he was, and he ached to ask what the year was, but he did none of those things and fell back against the pillow beneath his head.

“There's no use struggling, Captain. Those bands are a vibranium alloy. Not even your serum-enhanced strength can break them. Come now. You must be thirsty. Anesthesia does that. Drink.”

He turned his face away from the straw poised in front of his lips.

“Do you think we would have bothered treating your injuries and keeping you comatose if we intended to kill you the first time you open your eyes? That is not how Hydra treats a worthy adversary.”

Finally, he relented. His mouth was tacky, so he sipped the water. Liquid relief poured over his tongue.

“When you're feeling better, Mother Superior would like a word with you. She believes that the two of you can come to a mutually agreeable compromise. No more of this need to run around chasing Hydra in order to get what you want. No more Captain America against Hydra. Wouldn't you like that? To rest without fearing our legacy as enemies?”

“This line of manipulation isn't necessary. I'm hardly going anywhere on my own.”

The doctor chuckled, and the conversation was chalked up as one of the weirdest of his life. There he was lying in a hospital bed having a chat with a Hydra agent as though they were discussing the weather. He had no aspirations that he was anything but their newest pawn to be used in whatever manner suited their end goals. He didn't expect to live through it. No way did they leave him alive.

There was a measure of peace in knowing that. They would torture him, he was sure. They would use him until nothing remained but a dried up husk, but in the end, he would die. Everything would be over. The pain, fatigue, uncertainty, and confusion would be done. He would be able to rest.

*

The thing about being underground was that he had no way to judge the passing of time. Could have been weeks or even months since he was initially taken captive, as there were no windows through which to tell the difference between night and day. It didn't help that they kept him sedated for major stretches of time and only fed him enough calories to sustain his mass, though his muscles quickly began to deteriorate without exercise. Whatever they wanted from him, they wanted him at full health.

Part of him started feeling like a caged beast. He had memories of going to the reopening of the Menagerie at Central Park in nineteen thirty-four. That was before his ma had died, so she had taken the day off work and paid their entrance fare to see the animals. One thing had stuck out to him: the tigress pacing back and forth in her cage, paws scraping over a concrete floor. She had paced to and fro, over and over again until he had felt nauseous from sketching her.

A zoo employee had explained the behavior as restlessness, and it was no wonder why given the miniscule size of her cage. He had felt sorry for her then and had imagined the longing in her eyes as her spirit ached for the jungles of Asia and the forests of Siberia. Would she eventually be driven mad?

He felt like that tigress and ached over the wearing-down of his clack-a-clack claws from pacing the rough concrete of a cell, seeing the world only through the bars of his cage. Eventually, he would be driven mad as he lost track of the passage of time.

Then one day, four Hydra soldiers arrived to transfer him into a wheelchair to which he was chained. He tested the restraints and the stability of the chair but got nothing for his efforts except aching wrists. His bones would give long before the alloy they used to restrain him.

His guards wheeled him into a stately room some distance from the infirmary. Someone had laid out a table, and servers carried in trays filled with various finger foods. Another came behind with a tea service and stayed to pour two cups of tea.

Chains allowed him just enough give to pick up the cup and sip the contents, but he ignored the food for the time being, too nervous for his stomach to hold anything. He jerked his glance toward a second door when it opened. Something like horror gnawed a rat's nest into his stomach.

A woman entered. She was shapely and dressed in the pristine lines of a black coat. Around one arm was wrapped a swastika, but that didn't draw his attention nearly as much as the red skull that was her head. Heavy brow bones shaded her eyes in darkness.

From his vantage, he couldn't tell if she'd really endured the same physical transformation as her namesake or if she wore a prosthetic of some kind. He didn't really care. What mattered was the symbolism behind her appearance. Not even his nemesis had stayed dead despite Steve's sacrifice.

She sat across from him. Gloved fingers picked up a small cake from which she bit. Teeth gleamed in the overhead lights as they snipped off a piece.

She didn't speak until snapping her fingers brought an underling over, who settled a thick file folder atop Steve's plate. “This, I believe, is what you're looking for,” she said. Her accent was German, but he could hear the affect in it. She wasn't a native German speaker.

He opened the folder. A picture of Bucky as they had found him in the ravine was included. Bucky looked a mess, battered and broken, the ragged ends of the bones in his arm exposed. The remnants of his real arm had been deposited haphazardly on a nearby tray. Beneath, German words proclaimed “Making a Living Weapon: The Birth of the Winter Soldier. By Dr. Arnim Zola.”

The file was snatched off his plate before he could read further.

“You want to save your friend,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Barnes means nothing to me. He is a relic who has outlived his usefulness, but I gather he means a great deal more to you.”

“You know he does.”

“We will make a bargain. Then, I will give you this file, and you will discover the key to deprogramming your friend. Yes?”

Whether it be the weeks of captivity or his desperation to save his friend, he spiraled into recklessness. Logically, he knew. He knew he couldn't trust Hydra. Logic seemed so wrong, though, in the face of freeing Bucky from cryostasis. A bargain. He could make a bargain.

“What do you want?”

“First, you will hail Hydra.”

Words stuck in his throat and needed to be pried from his mouth with a winch.

“Such a simple statement, Captain. Say it or our bargain goes no further, and your friend slips back into the murky depths of cryostasis.”

“How do you know he's in cryostasis?”

“Hydra has many eyes.”

If they knew his present condition, that meant they knew where he was and could take him prisoner again. Steve shot forward in his wheelchair only for the restraints to prevent him from closing the gap between himself and this imitation of Red Skull.

“Say it, Captain.”

The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth as he bit his cheek. Bucky or his pride, and if Hydra really did know Bucky's location, they could attack at any time. “Hail Hydra.”

“Very good. Simple enough, you see. Your flesh has not caught fire.” She sipped from a cup of tea. “Secondly, you will assassinate King T'Challa in the name of Hydra. Complete this task, and the information is yours.”

“How do I know your information will successfully deprogram his trigger words?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Stupid question,” he shot back.

She chuckled and beckoned an associate forward. Taking a paper and pen, she cleared a space next to her place setting to jot some things down in a script dominated by soft, feminine loops. Then, she offered him the paper.

It held two words: Project MKUltra.

“Take this term. It was brought to the American CIA by Dr. Zola after Hydra forces successfully infiltrated your letter organizations. This is but one branch of study used to undermine your Bucky Barnes' autonomy. If you find the information useful, if your psychologists are able to find scientific soundness in Dr. Zola's project, then you will know I speak truthfully.”

He stared at the garish ink glaring up from the page.

“Will you do this for Hydra?”

“No.” A beat of silence passed. “I'll do it for Bucky.”

“Do not disappoint, Captain. Hail Hydra.”

She beckoned him to reciprocate.

It was like swallowing nails. Everything inside him denied the words. He had attempted to give his life to stop Hydra. But if he didn't, he sacrificed Bucky's life. There was a big difference between those two things, and he'd already established there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for Bucky.

“Hail Hydra,” he finally responded.

*

Later that night, he was awoken from a deep sleep by vibrations shimmying through the building's foundation and the distant sound of battle. Straining against his bonds did nothing but make his body ache. Another missile impact caused overhead lights to flicker on and off and sent dust drifting from the ceiling. Scientists and soldiers went screaming past the glass door of his cell.

Then came the quiet. Being swallowed up by the silence was maddening. Not knowing who was in the process of attacking allowed his mind to invent scenarios, each more fanciful than the last. One such scenario involved Bucky crashing through the door of his cell. He would rush forward and say, _“I'm gone six months, and you can't stay outta trouble, pal.”_ And Steve would say, _“Guess that should tell you something, huh?”_ And Bucky would say, _“Guess so.”_ And Steve would say, _“I missed you.”_ And Bucky would say, _“I missed you, too.”_ And Steve would say, _“I didn't think you would come.”_ And Bucky would say, _“How could I not? Gotta rescue that fella I'm crazy about, you know.”_

Only that wasn't what happened. A bright light pulsed outside his cell door. Next thing he knew, Iron Man stomped into the cell. His face plate flipped up to reveal Steve's goatee-wearing nemesis.

Steve huffed. “You insure that facial hair?”

“Yep. My goatee ever gets burned off, I pass go. I collect two hundred dollars. What the Hell did they do to you, buddy?”

“I think the better question is why you're here. Considering.”

“Look, Big Guy, just because I want to break your face doesn't mean I want anyone else to do it for me. I have the package in custody. Sub-level four. We're gonna need a thumb print.”

Hydra soldiers rushed into the room en mass then, and it was something of beauty watching Tony fight. The easy way his suit shifted around him, moving like a second set of skin, was like poetry in motion. Steve had never taken the opportunity to just watch the other man work before, and he remembered. He remembered what it had felt like to anticipate his moves in conjunction with Tony's repulsors. He remembered using the shield to reflect each blast and magnify it.

But that easiness was dead. It had died in a Siberian base when Tony had tried to kill Bucky and Steve had chosen Bucky over Tony Stark. As if that had ever been an option.

The chaos happened around him, and the beast inside him roared for freedom. It unfurled its weakened shoulders and snarled its desire to fight, its desire to feast, its desire to sink reeking fangs into hot flesh and feel the gush of Hydra blood filling its mouth. Only-- Weren't they his brethren now, too? In order to save Bucky. That thought silenced the beast's roars as confusion back-filled his hate.

Moments later, Natasha rushed into the cell wearing her old Widow uniform.

“You got it, Spider-bro?”

She brandished a severed thumb and hurried over to press the pad against each locking mechanisms on the metal bands restraining him.

“You two are working together now?”

“It's easy to set aside differences when someone you mutually care about is behaving like an ass.”

“Don't look at me, Spider-bro. I just wanna break his face. This is strictly off the books by the way. Try not to go shouting to the rooftops about Tony Stark waking you with true love's first kiss.”

“I'd rather remain in a coma.”

Each lock beeped, and Nat threw off the steel bands one by one, finally allowing him to sit up. He swung his legs over the side of the gurney but found his legs unable to support his weight, so he sagged. He sagged and mewled in distress when Iron Man caught his weight to hold him up.

“We have the package. Extracting now. And please don't detonate anything you don't absolutely have to. The German government will kill me if we blow up Wartburg Castle.”

*

Tony and Vision didn't stick around after the battle. Steve and he exchanged a hard look, uncertain of their footing with one another, before the two Avengers left to deal with the German government. 

Steve boarded one of T'Challa's planes with the help of Clint, who was the first to smack him upside the head. Sam didn't speak to him. Sam, in fact, wouldn't even make eye contact with him. Rather than feeling adrift by his best friend rescinding their friendship, he felt relieved. One less person who would care whether he lived or died. One less person to be affected when he did what was necessary to save Bucky. After, he would give up, disappear into the wilds of the world and fade from existence.

It took time to validate the information Madame Skull had given him. He worked in secret by contacting a number of psychologists, one of which directed him to a man named Dr. Rodchenko, an old Soviet communist who had worked with brainwashing techniques in the past. Rodchenko sent him a number of classified files he'd smuggled from the CIA archives.

When he wasn't spending time researching Project MKUltra, he was rebuilding his muscle mass. Turned out he had been in Hydra captivity for just under two months. It amazed him how quickly a body could lose its own muscle mass.

So he worked out. He isolated himself. He hid away inside his suite during meal times, eating more calories than he needed, but it was either that or succumb to boredom. It was either eat or wallow in the morose cloud that had blanketed him. Not like he was welcome during communal meal times anyway. The only one who didn't ignore him was Wanda, and she just looked at him with pity.

Steve sometimes tried to regulate the amount of calories he took in. Each time he went into the pantry to gather more supplies, he told himself he would only take enough for the day. Then he would remember what it was like to have nothing in his larder, how slim the pickings had been back during the Depression, and this irrational fear of starving would overpower better sense, causing him to squirrel away great quantities of food while the others weren't looking. And of course, once it was in his room, there was no point letting it go to waste.

After learning about the validity of Madame Skull's information, he started the process of profiling King T'Challa, learning his patterns of movement and points of vulnerability. Nearly every day, the king dismissed his royal guards and sneaked out of the palace around lunch time. It was near the animal sanctuary that he always lost the man's trail.

That day, though. That day, he trailed the king right to a hidden door. A hidden door where he met Sam. A hidden door where Sam greeted T'Challa with a kiss.

*

Hellfire licked his skin. Damnation spewed from the mouth of a Baptist minister. Steve woke in a cocoon of soaked sheets to a hive of activity all around him. Bucky stood beside him dressed in his WWII uniform with the sergeant chevron glittering boldly on his shoulder.

“Buck?” He reached toward Bucky, but his friend stepped away. “Bucky?”

Steve tried propping himself on his elbows, but hands pushed him back toward the bed.

Someone said, “His temperature has climbed to one hundred fifteen.”

“What does that mean?” asked Sam.

“We don't know how long his enhanced body can maintain at this temperature. Anyone else would be dead by now. He's delirious.”

Bucky moved around a nurse and came closer again. _“You're gonna be okay, Stevie.”_ His voice was distinct, but his mouth didn't move.

“Don't leave me.”

_“What are you talking about? Not gonna leave my best guy.”_

“Bucky. Bucky, I'm sorry. 'S my fault you fell. 'S my fault you were tortured. I wanted to make it better, bring you back, but Sam. Can't do that to Sam, sugar pie.”

“What's he saying?” Sam asked, his voice sounding distant.

_“I understand, doll-face. 'S okay. You can let me rest. You should rest, too.”_

“Can't.”

_“Course you can. Just let go. Let it happen, and you can be with me.”_

“Yeah. Yeah, I wanna be with you. Wanna be with you so bad.”

“The captain's temperature is climbing again. We're up to one twenty.”

“Somebody fucking do something!” shouted Sam.

_“Then be with me. All you gotta do is let go.”_

“Yeah.” He felt himself nod. “Just gonna let go.”

A new voice entered the cacophony surrounding him. “Blood work just came back. It's the serum. The serum's starting to devour his cells. I don't know if we can stop it.”

“Goddamn it, we need Dr. Cho. Or Bruce Banner.”

Steve slipped. He slid into the ether and surrendered.

*

He was floating in a lake of fire, lava bubbling all around him, the smell of sulfur heavy in the atmosphere. It was so thick he choked. He choked and coughed up blood.

Dr. Erskine's voice trembled in his ear. _“The serum amplifies everything that is inside, so good becomes great; bad becomes worse. This is why you were chosen. Because the strong man who has known power all his life may lose respect for that power, but a weak man knows the value of strength and knows compassion.”_

_“Thanks, I think.”_

_“Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. That you will stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier but a good man.”_

The serum was destroying him, he realized. He could feel it burning him from the inside out, like fire ants gnawing at his nerve endings. And there was nothing but pain. And there was nothing but misery. And soon, he would wake and peel off his skin to reveal a grinning, crimson skull.

If he killed T'Challa, the transformation would be complete.

If he didn't kill T'Challa, Bucky would slip into the murky depths, lost to him forever.

The Red Skull rose, skin dripping ghoulishly to reveal his true nature. _“What makes you so special?”_

_“Nothing. I'm just a kid from Brooklyn.”_

Eventually, his listless body bumped into a jetty. He grasped it, hauled himself out of the lava with a mighty heave, and stood, dripping, above King T'Challa, lying serene in his bed. And there was Bucky on one side. And there was Sam on the other. And in his own hand, the shield.

 _“Choose,”_ said Madame Skull.

 _“Choose,”_ said the Red Skull.

 _“Choose,”_ said General Ross.

 _“Choose,”_ said Tony Stark.

He looked at Sam. He looked at Bucky.

The ferocious beast with his clack-a-clack claws skulked back into the darkness.

“I'm sorry,” he sobbed. “Bucky, I'm sorry. I can't.”

The shield clanged as it slipped from his hand to clatter against the jetty.


	4. d e p p r e s s i o n

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve Rogers spirals into the depths of unrelenting depression.

Steve startled awake with a heart thundering the final furlongs of a race. He pushed back the hospital blanket and looked down at his body. His skin was pale, so he touched his face. Soft flesh met his fingertips. There was the give of muscle and skin and the cartilage of his nose.

Beside him, Sam was slouched in a hospital chair. The man's legs were spread wide and chin snugged against chest. He was asleep. Light snores whistled from him.

The realization settled heavy on his shoulders when he understood how close he'd come to betraying his best friend. Just a whisper would have pushed him over the edge. Him suffering was one thing; he'd been doing it all his life, but Sam didn't deserve to undergo the same separation from a loved one.

He started to stand.

Sam's eyes snapped open.

“Hey, man. Don't get up.” The other man's voice was rough, and he surged to his feet to settle a hand against Steve's chest. A broad palm then touched Steve's forehead. “Thank God. Your fever's broken.”

“I--”

“Hey, no. What happened in Germany sucked. I don't forgive you for that, but you're still my best friend. Just means you're gonna have to do a lot of foot-kissing to make it up to me.”

A ghost of a smile haunted his lips. “How long I been out?”

“Four days, and let me tell you, those were the four longest days of my life. I only just now managed to kick Nat outta here to get some sleep in a real bed. All the rest of them are keeping an eye on Stark while he's here.”

“What's Stark doing here?”

“There wasn't anyone else to call. You were dying. Your heart stopped. So we called Tony, and he brought in some guy named Richards to consult. Best scientist on the planet, I hear, aside from Bruce, who is still MIA. Just take it easy, okay?”

Emotion overwhelmed him suddenly, and he pressed his face into both hands. Tears could no longer be controlled and ran unchecked down his face, dripping off his chin. Then came the ugly sobbing. It was the breaking of a dam, an overwhelming wall of emotion destroying everything in its path as it sought the deepest pit of the lowest valley.

“'S okay, man. Let it out.”

Weight settled on the edge of the bed. Warm arms came around him, and he couldn't fight it. He couldn't fight the comfort rolling off Sam in waves, so he turned his face into the man's chest to somehow muffle the inhuman sounds tearing out of him.

“That's it. I got you, buddy. Just get all that poison outta you.”

“It's all gone,” he choked out. “Everything's gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm trapped here in the future. They took the shield. I've got nothing left, Sam. I got nothing but a broken heart.”

Sam started humming and rocking gently. “I know it's gotta feel like that right now. It hurts like Hell, but it's gonna get better. You just have to be willing to help yourself get out of this mess.”

“Sam.” His knuckles ached from grabbing handfuls of the other man's shirt. “Sam, it hurts so bad.”

Great, heaving sobs shook his body, shook Sam, shook the hospital bed on which they sat, but he eventually had nothing left inside but a hollow feeling. Everything that was Steve Rogers had poured out of him, leaving a husk in its wake. No Steve. No Captain America. No beast. Just nothing, a gaping emptiness at the bottom of the ocean.

Things didn't get better. He was released from the hospital that evening, and Nat curled up in bed beside him, his head pillowed in her lap and her fingers stroking his hair. It was like being a child again. He'd been split open and reverted back to the basic needs of comfort and companionship.

The following morning, he arsed himself enough to get out of bed and visit Bucky, passing through the communal living space where everyone was having breakfast. Eyes stared at him like dogs seeing a ghost. His intention was to pass right through unseen, but they refused to acknowledge his intention.

“Steve,” Wanda began, “come and break bread with us. Clint made French toast.”

“I--” Part of him wanted to. But it was only a shadow of a voice, and the idea of sitting and eating in front of them made his skin crawl. “No, thank you. I'm going to visit Bucky.”

“We'll make you a plate and leave it in the oven, yeah?” This from Scott.

“Okay.” A beat of silence. “Thank you.” More silence. “I'm going to...” He turned to leave but was brought up short by Wanda.

“We care about you, Steve. After Lagos, you sat with me. You cared enough to do that.”

“You didn't let me beat myself up when Loki screwed with my head and Coulson died. Just jumped right in. Gave me something to care about again.”

“You gave me the courage to do what was right when I found out Vista Corp was hurting people.”

“You trust me to save you life,” said Nat.

Finally, Sam said, “You know, sometimes I'm not sure why I'm friends with you. You're a stubborn ass mule. You're shit at self-care. You're driven to the exclusion of all else. And you're co-dependent as Hell on a guy you keep letting disappoint you.” Sam grunted as Scott elbowed him. “But you're worth every second of frustration because you're also the best man I know. Don't forget that, man.”

Steve searched for something to say that was half as touching but came up empty, so he nodded. Just once. Just to let them know their platitudes hadn't fallen on deaf ears. He was inside the elevator and waiting for the doors to close when he heard them singing.

There was Wanda's soprano singing, “I get by with a little help from my friends.”

And Scott with his out-of-key alto. “I get high with a little help from my friends.”

Then came Clint's tenor. “Going to try.”

And Nat's alto. “With little help.”

Finally, Sam's baritone, “From my friends.”

Tears spilled over his lashes as the doors finally closed. It was powerful symbolism, him standing on one side, them on the other, a solid wall going up between them. And he had lost the will to reach across the boundaries. He had lost the will and the right, so when the doors finally connected, he sagged to press face into hands. It felt like a chapter closing.

Thing was that he couldn't bring himself to look at Bucky when he went inside. His best friend, the man he loved, was unchanging, frozen, eyelashes crusted with ice particles.

 _“I failed,”_ he wanted to say. Bucky would say, _“Yeah.” “I can't save you,”_ he would say. Bucky would say, _“Coulda told you that weeks ago, punk.”_ And Steve would say, _“Why do I always fail you?”_ Then Bucky would say, _“Because you were born wrong. Heck, pal, you even failed your ma. You know she got sick 'cause she was working so hard trying to make you better, right?”_

Steve's jaw tightened with unspent fury. He shoved to his feet and slammed the back of his hand against the screws still emerging from metal. A sharp tug raked those screws down his forearm. The pain lancing up his flesh was nothing compared to hearing Bucky reaffirm Steve's inner thoughts.

“This doesn't hurt you, does it.” It wasn't a question.

 _“Nope.”_ Bucky's phantom voice would go on to say, _“Look, pal, it was inevitable, right? Sickly punk like you? Coulda told Erskine myself you weren't the right man for the job. Always getting in fights and leaving me to finish 'em. No way did you stand a chance of defeating Hydra.”_ And Steve would whine, _“Bucky”_ like an injured dog and another crimson stripe would appear on his skin.

Wet tickled down his forearm and dripped from his fingers.

“I can't do this anymore,” he finally said. “I can't do this without you.”

 _“I know,”_ Bucky would say. _“It's okay, though. Just gotta find the right way to do it.”_ Then, Bucky would huff a bark of laughter. _“Don't try throwing yourself off a mountain. It don't work.”_

“How then?”

Bucky would say, _“Gotta do it so your cells can't regenerate. Destroy the brain. Blow up the body.”_

“I could probably get a grenade.”

_“Yeah, grenade should do it. Then you won't have to hurt anymore. We can be together finally.”_

“I have to-- Timing's gotta be right. There's stuff I gotta take care of first.”

_“Okay, but you don't want to put it off too long. I miss you, you punk.”_

“Miss you, too.”

Face tacky with drying tears, fingers coated in drying blood, he finally moved to leave. Cleaning the blood off the floor didn't really occur to him as being a necessity. No one came to sit with Bucky aside from him. The Tomb was their sanctuary.

He found the common room empty by the time he returned and went to reheat the plate of French Toast and bacon the others had left for him. Out of some desire to feel remotely normal, he sat at the dining room table to eat instead of retreating to his room. Once settled, he allowed himself a ghost of a smile and imagined Bucky joining him, the sun shining through glass to paint kaleidoscopes of light and shadow across the wood grain.

Bucky would throw his hair over his shoulder. He would smile that impish smile, the one where he clenched his bottom lip between his teeth. He would settle, barefoot, into the chair opposite Steve only to lean over and steal a slice of bacon. A bare foot would then skim up Steve's calf.

Bucky would say, _“Morning, Sunshine.”_

And Steve would say, _“Good morning. Didn't expect you to sleep so late.”_

And Bucky would say, _“Are you kidding, sweetheart? You wore me out last night.”_ Then he would lean forward as though sharing a secret and murmur, _“I'd let you wear me out every night.”_

Steve would blush. He would duck his head to avoid eye contact.

Bucky would tease, _“Look at you. Five hours ago, you had your cock in my ass, now you're blushing like the Virgin Mary.”_

And Steve would admonish Bucky to not use her name in such lewd conversation.

Then Bucky would apologize and reach over for another slice of bacon.

After, Steve would feel sick to his stomach at the thought of putting his cock in Bucky's ass. He didn't want to do that. If he were normal, he would want to do that, and some part of him desperately wanted to be normal, but thinking about the act itself left him feeling unsettled.

Eyes moist again, he smiled a bright sort of smile, one that faded as quickly as it came when T'Challa sat in the chair where his imagined Bucky had been sitting, obliterating the vision. It was only secondary that he realized he was sitting with fork poised half-way to his mouth. The clang of it hitting the plate preceded him spinning his chair around to avoid being seen chewing.

“Have I offended you, Captain?”

Steve nearly choked swallowing the food down without fully chewing. He choked and he coughed. “N-no, Your Majesty. Of course you haven't.”

“Then why do you hide your face?”

“No reason. I should get going, though. Training session, you know.”

“Sit. Eat. Do not let me drive you from your meal.”

“Not hungry anymore.” He felt his shoulders slouching.

“You are avoiding me, now.”

Of course he denied it.

Silence descended.

T'Challa finally said, “You were following me until recently.”

There was no point in denying that.

“Will you tell me why?”

“No.”

“Sam is worried for you.”

“I can't help that.”

“Sam is close to my heart. It pains me to see him concerned for his friend.” Then, quieter, he said, “It pains me to see a good man so at odds with himself.”

“Look, I'm fine. Everyone needs to stop getting so up in arms over me when I got no reason to complain. Free place to live. Free food. Safety. My best friend has hope that he might recover one day. There's nothing there to be upset over.”

“There is a woman I would ask you to see. She can help you quiet your mind.”

“God, you sound just like Sam. Can't I get a break from your touchy-feely bullshit about talking about my feelings? My feelings are fine. They're great. Got nothing to complain about.”

“Then why will you not face me?”

Slowly, like the opening of the Black Gates of Mordor, he turned his chair back around. Lifting his glance from wood grain was another challenge altogether, but eventually, he met the other man's eye contact. And all he saw was the what if's. And all he saw was how close he'd come to murdering a man for Hydra.

Steve raced to the sink in the nick of time. What food he'd eaten came back up in technicolor. His body heaved with the need to expel what was inside, that festering darkness that was taking him over. He deserved it, too. He deserved to become the Red Skull. There was nothing good left in him.

“Captain.”

T'Challa's voice was much closer than before and caused Steve to jump until he realized the king held out a damp cloth.

Steve wiped the mess from his mouth.

“Your friends are worried.”

“They're not my friends; they're my team mates.”

“Your friends are worried.”

“It's not my job to make them calm.”

“Your friends are worried, Steve.”

“I don't want to be here anymore!” It exploded from him like a geyser. All that ugliness came out at once as he verbally acknowledged for the first time the sickening rot blackening his core.

“Then let us help you find reasons to stay.”

He shook his head while backing away a few steps at a time.

“Give my friend one month. One month is all I ask, Captain.”

“They're better without me. Everyone is better without me.”

“You believe the lies your heartache tells you. They sound like good lies. They sound like logic. But let me ask you one thing. Do you trust me?”

“I don't--” He raked fingers through his hair. “Yes. I trusted you with Bucky, so I guess I do.”

“You do not have to believe your mind and its lies. All you must do is believe that I do not lie when I say you are wrong. Trust me, Steve. Give my friend one month. If after that month is over, you still do not want to be here, then I will not stop you.”

“One month.”

“Thirty days.”

“I guess putting it off thirty days won't hurt in the grand scheme of things.”

*

The funny thing was that none of the others looked at him differently the following morning when he emerged to refresh the food supplies in his room. He had a reusable grocery bag tucked over his arm upon disappearing into the pantry and returned with it bulging with various snacks. Boston Cream Pie Toaster Strudel were his favorite right now, so he had the entire stock of five boxes in his bag to be transferred into the fridge that had turned up in his room a couple weeks ago. He had his own toaster and hot plate in there, too, but why the cooking staff didn't just stock his fridge was a mystery. Probably someone's scheming to make sure he came out of his room once every few days.

“Going shopping, Cap?” asked Scott. “Putting on your hibernation fat? Ow!”

Wanda shook her hand out after having slapped him upside the head.

Steve looked down at himself. It was true that his sweats were tighter than before, that he was losing that trim waist that had earned him the nickname “Dorito” by Tony. But he still had muscle tone. Maybe he would add some more reps to his work out routine and trim back down. He didn't see the point, though, when in a month, he would get to blow himself up with a grenade.

“Come and have breakfast with us, Steve,” said Wanda.

“Not this morning. I'm in the middle of something. Thanks anyway.”

But none of them said anything about his emotional outburst with T'Challa yesterday. He didn't think it was possible the king hadn't gone running back to them with gossip about how Captain S. Rogers was having a crisis and planning on stepping into an incinerator until there was nothing left for his enhanced cells to regrow. Probably wouldn't hurt for more than a split second.

Back in his room, he put his snacks away in the fridge and the bookshelf that no longer held books and popped a couple of toaster strudel into the machine to cook. When it was done, he flopped onto his bed, cut open the icing packet, and drew little hearts all over them in chocolate, sugary icing.

 _“Those for me?”_ Bucky would ask.

 _“Sure thing, sugar pie,”_ Steve would say. Then, he would hold one out in front of Bucky's mouth, and the man would smile that warm smile before taking a bite. A bit of crumb and chocolate would linger on Bucky's mouth that would drive Steve mad until he leaned forward and licked it away.

In the background, Wanda would be singing, _“Sugar pie, honey bunch.”_

And Scott would merge into her voice singing, _“You know that I love you.”_

Then Bucky would take over and sing with his beautiful tenor, _“I love you and nobody else.”_

They would share the sweet, just the two of them, and after every crumb had been licked up, they would stretch out on his bed, Bucky being the big spoon. The man's warm palm would settle right on Steve's hip and draw lazy patterns there. Every now and then, a pair of warm lips would graze the nape of his neck, and he would listen to Bucky humming.

 _“The first time ever I kissed your lips, I felt the Earth move in my hand like the trembling heart of a captive bird,”_ Bucky would sing.

And it would feel so, so good, being surrounded by Bucky's calming presence, feeling loved, feeling cared for, being taken care of without that giant chip on his shoulder getting in the way. He'd been so damn stupid not to enjoy Bucky's attention when he'd been sick with scarlet fever and had woken to hear Bucky praying earnestly, begging God not to take him yet.

But Bucky wasn't there, and the thing filling his arms was his own pillow. Because Bucky was frozen in cryostasis. He was frozen, and he wasn't coming back. And the only thing left for Steve Rogers was to weep into his pillow in some desperate need to unleash the pressure building in him. One month was going to feel like forever.

Later, Nat knocked on his door, and when she found him curled into a ball, she crawled up behind him and snuggled up against his back. His fingers ached from clutching his pillow, and she was the one to ease his grip, the one to snake her fingers beneath his and pull his hands away. So he clutched her wrists instead and allowed himself to melt into her embrace.

They never talked when she came to him at night. Words felt profane. It would have scratched like nails against a chalkboard, so they lay quietly together and took comfort in the other's presence. She'd never told him why she'd decided to let them leave that day at the airport. Neither had she acknowledged why Bucky's life seemed to matter to her. Sure, there was that story about the Winter Soldier shooting her to get to his target, but it seemed there was more to the story than that.

But at the end of the day, the why didn't matter. What mattered was that she somehow understood the depths of his grief for Bucky Barnes. Neither did she put pressure on him to be any better than he already was. Sam meant well. T'Challa meant well. But their concern came partly from selfishness. They wanted him better so they didn't have to ache from his loss.

Getting out of bed the following morning seemed an impossibility, so he didn't even try. There was no point in showering. He didn't want to stand up for that long. Besides, his own stink wouldn't offend his sensibilities for the month he had left before he could step in front of a train. He correct himself almost immediately. Stepping in front of a train would be asking the conductor to shoulder his death. It needed to come by his own hand and involve no one but him.

So he was content to wrap himself into a cocoon of blankets and sleep. At least when he slept, he dreamed. His dreams were nonsensical, but at least they didn't contain the inevitable. In his dream, Bucky was one step ahead of him until the very end, when Steve finally caught up, finally folded the man into his arms and pulled him close. And as their mouths met, a sharp rapping jarred him awake.

Took him a moment to realize the knocking was at his bedroom door. He struggled into a seated position. Wiped the crust of sleep and tears from his eyes, and discovered the bed beside him empty. Nat had left some time in the night, which wasn't unusual.

The knocking continued.

“What, Goddamn it?”

T'Challa entered and pinned him with a severe look “You are not showered or dressed.”

“I just woke up.”

“It is three in the afternoon.”

“Does it look like I've got a nine to five?”

“Put on something. We are going to meet my friend, the one I spoke to you about yesterday.”

“Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph. You don't let up, do you.”

“Yours was a promise I will hold you to.”

Sensing which way the winds blew, he finally threw off the blanket and stepped out of bed. The new girth of his thighs, fleshy with a hint of softness, bothered him, so he snatched the blanket and held it in front of him. “Do you mind?”

The king gave one last penetrating glare before stepping into the hall.

Once alone, Steve pulled through his drawers, upsetting a pile of Snickers wrappers he hadn't wanted to throw away lest housekeeping find out how many calories he consumed in a day, and retrieved a clean pair of sweats and a long-sleeved Under Armor. If the shirt was a little tighter than it had been the last time he'd worn it, that was not something he was acknowledging.

Pulling on his uniform boots—he couldn't be arsed to find his sneakers—meant he was presentable enough to meet this woman T'Challa thought would magically make him better. He joined the king out in the hall. Said king looked him up and down once. Then twice. Finally, he moved ahead of Steve, soft footfalls muted by the bamboo flooring.

They left the complex and moved out into the balmy Wakandan weather. It was a little nice, Steve thought, breathing in the fresh air and hearing the sounds of the city around him. Not that he would admit that to anyone else. He didn't deserve nice anymore.

Ultimately, they wound up inside an office in a glass-fronted building along the river where the king greeted a woman who stepped into the waiting room. He then turned and said, “This is Steve Rogers. I spoke to you about him last night.”

When the woman spoke, it was with a heavy accent. “Captain Rogers, it is an honor. Will you allow me to introduce myself? I am Dr. P'Salle. His Majesty tells me you have had trouble lately, knowing how to speak what is inside your head.”

“That's what they tell me.”

“Will you come with me and we can speak privately?”

“One month, you promised me, Captain,” said T'Challa. “And you must try for that month, not sit in limbo waiting for your promised allotment to end.”

A heavy breath left him. After rubbing his palms against his thighs, he stood and followed P'Salle into her office. It overlooked a garden and a lake where various water fowl played. She directed him to a sofa, and instead of sitting behind her desk, she dropped into an armchair.

“I should warn you that I'm not good at this.” He indicated his surroundings. “I'm not good at talking about things. You can ask Bucky, he always called me a little shit about-- Well, I guess you can't ask Bucky. You know. Considering.” He huffed some laughter at the end of his statement.

“No one is, but tell me. What do you think I am going to do to you?”

“Make me talk about my ma dying and being sick all the time and how me acting out now is a sign I wanted to have sex with my mother. Or something.”

That made her chuckle. “So you are aware of the Freudian school of psychology.”

He shrugged helplessly.

“Let us begin easily then, shall we? What is your favorite color?”

That question took him by surprise. “Beg your pardon?”

“T'Challa didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“I have a doctorate in fine arts with a masters in talk therapy and a certificate in art therapy. Captain, Rogers, I specialize in helping people through art. We are going to make beautiful things together, and in the doing, we will express our inner lives on the canvas.”

“Oh.” Well, if he didn't learn something new every day.

*

Steve couldn't even conceptualize the assignment Dr. P'Salle laid out for him during their first session. Something about a self-portrait reflecting how he thought of himself. He didn't put anything on paper. Dr. P'Salle didn't lambast him for it. She smiled a neutral smile and dismissed him after an hour.

*

The second session went much the same.

*

Their third session, the therapist coaxed him into scribbling on a piece of paper. The lines had no meaning; they took no recognizable shape, but the chaos displayed blatantly in graphite made him uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to the point he tore the page out, balled it up, and hurled it across the room in honor of his mounting frustration.

Dr. P'Salle said it would take time to get in touch with the creative core he'd allowed to wither, but Steve didn't want to be patient. He expressed that with a surly attitude that, if in his right mind, he would have apologized for. At that moment, however, he couldn't see past his abject lack of desire to be anywhere near the woman, her office, or the help she offered.

*

He skipped their fourth session. That evening, Sam attempted to coax him out of his room, but Steve felt too exhausted to drag himself out of bed and change into adult clothes, so he ignored the summons, rolled onto his side, and attempted to fall asleep again. At least when he slept, he could dream, and in those quiet moments before sleep, he could imagine a world in which Bucky hadn't fallen from the train, a world wherein Bucky looked at Steve like he deserved the man's attention.

T'Challa pounded on his door thirty minutes later and didn't bother waiting for permission before breezing inside. The king turned his nose up at the piles of food wrappers spilling out of the wastebasket. Empty bottles of sugary soda littered the room.

“Our deal was that you try.”

“I did.”

“It has not been a month.”

“For fuck's sake--”

“You will not use that language with me.” T'Challa's voice brooked no argument. “Either you show up for your therapy appointments, or I tell the others about your desire for death and you go on suicide watch. The choice, ultimately, is yours.”

*

Steve turned up for his fifth therapy appointment.

*

And his sixth.

*

And his seventh.

*

And his eight.

*

On his ninth, P'Salle met him in her office with two canvases and sets of paint. She instructed him to layer paint on the canvas. Didn't matter what came out. Didn't matter if there was any structure or thought behind it. His only job was to put color down.

Steve looked doubtful. He was hesitant in taking up a palette knife. The first stroke of paint, bright crimson, seemed garish, and while he intended to leave it at that, he found himself going for blue, but the blue wasn't quite the shade he wanted, so he mixed white into the pigment to lighten the shade.

Another splash of color joined the red. Then, it seemed he couldn't stop. Crimson and electric blue and burgundy and a sickly brown. Fresh blood and old blood. Dried blood and curdled blood. And through it, arched branches of that vibrant blue.

The red was easy. It was the blood of the people he'd killed, the blood he'd shed, Bucky's blood staining Steve's uniform. It was dried blood caked under his fingernails. It was anger. It was the hot fury bubbling in his witch's cauldron.

The blue was not so easy a thing to grasp. Yes, it represented water and ice, his grave for seventy years. That first sting of Arctic water crashing through the windshield with enough force that the pilot's chair had been torn from its bolts. But there was something more, some electric burn coating his tongue and making his skin crawl. Then the answer came to him. It was the blue of Hydra's weapons.

Steve's palette knife clattered to the floor. He scrambled to the nearest garbage can to empty the contents of his stomach. All he could hear for several minutes was the heaving of his body as he wretched. It wasn't enough to purge the faint scent of those weapons' discharges.

Moments later, he felt P'Salle's hand on his back where she crouched next to him rubbing a warm palm there. Her husky voice murmured words in the Wakandan language that needed no translation. Their meaning mattered less than her comforting tone.

“What did you see?” she asked after giving him a bottle of water to rinse his mouth.

“Hydra had weapons that fired... I don't know what they fired, but that color blue-- It was like I could taste their electric charge in the air again.”

“Were you hit by those weapons?”

“No. Never. But I saw men who were. Sometimes I still smell the bodies.” He pressed a hand over his mouth and forced the memory aside lest he become trapped in its jaws.

Instead, he imagined the office door flinging open, painted a picture of Bucky strutting inside. It was Bucky from before the war, back when he had the confident swagger of a man with the world at his feet. He would stop in front of Steve with hands on hips, shirtless and with suspenders dangling around his legs, the way he looked in the midst of dressing.

 _“You gonna lounge around all day, champ? Coney Island's got our names written all over it,”_ he would say with his thick, Brooklyn accent.

Steve would look flustered. Back then, he had always been flustered by seeing Buck so casual. He would turn his gaze away from his friend's chiseled chest before being caught staring.

The man's expression would change then, go from carefree to knowing and then sultry, and he would say, _“Like something you see?”_

And Steve would respond, _“Sure do.”_

And Bucky would pull Steve to his feet and crash their mouths together. Their kisses would be thunderstorms, lightning sparking between their lips as they met and pulled apart. Bucky's hands would be a hurricane, shoving clothing aside, brushing blood-warm fingers against Steve's bare skin.

“Steve.”

A grimace pulled his lips down.

“Steve, I need you to stay with the emotions. You will not improve if you keep avoiding them.”

He snapped back to his feet. The glare he treated her to was penetrating, so much so that she took a step back to reestablish their personal space. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate-- That wasn't right. He flat out didn't appreciate what she was attempting to do. The only reason he'd shown up was to appease T'Challa, who'd taken them in and given them a home when he hadn't been required to.

He was distant and much less responsive for the remainder of the session, and as soon as P'Salle excused him, he left the office building behind like the hordes of Hydra were nipping at his heels. 

His teammates lounged in the common room when he returned. They coaxed him into sitting through the rest of a movie with them. Honestly, he wouldn't remember the next day what they watched. It had something to do with blue cat-like aliens and humans.

Their offer of dinner, on the other hand, he refused in favor of retreating back to his room. And if Sam's expression became pained, that was his own fault for giving a shit about someone who was in the process of checking out of the hotel.

Incidentally, trying to recapture the earlier scene from P'Salle's office failed miserably. He pushed his hand beneath the blanket to palm himself through his boxers. There was Bucky's face as it had been before he'd left for war. And there was the curl of his lip when he smiled that half-smile that had greeted Steve countless times after they'd seen each other at the end of a long day. And there was his tongue darting out to moisten his lips, but the image kept breaking apart.

Steve couldn't concentrate enough to really build the fantasy. Every time he tried, his mind would flit off in another direction, leaving him feeling like a record player needle stuck in a groove. His cock didn't even twitch in interest let alone get hard enough to make masturbating any fun.

Twenty-one days left before he could steal a grenade from the armory and blow himself sky high. 

*

“You seem tired today, Captain Rogers,” said P'Salle while they took a break from painting.

“Didn't sleep well,” he responded.

“Does that happen a lot?”

He shrugged.

So she tried a different line of questioning. “What are you painting?”

He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and turned back to look at his canvas. It was filled with gaunt, humanoid shapes. Each shape was black or gray in color. Behind them, stood men who were more fully formed. Those men carried rifles. The background he'd filled in with flames and smoke.

If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the heaviness of ash making the air thick. This wasn't a subject he wanted to talk about, but it was also one he knew he needed to. The guilt of not speaking up earlier weighed heavily, and he imagined himself as Atlas with the world on his shoulders.

“Intelligence led us to believe one of Hydra's elite was moving shipments of Hydra technology into what was reported to be a work camp.” He paused then to collect his thoughts. “Everyone thought Dum Dum was this big, brute of a guy, but he wore his heart on his sleeve. Monty was the one who was a tough nut to crack. All that stiff, British upper lip, I guess.” He lost the thread of his comment in favor of chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“There are still people who deny what the Germans did to the Jews. Did you know that? I should have said something, I guess. Released a book or something. It wasn't just the Jews either. Anybody who was different, people with birth defects, the Romani, homosexuals. They were all funneled either into the extermination camps or into human experimentation labs.” He gulped some more coffee.

“Monty, I heard him sobbing behind a shed that night. A Jewish kid had begged him to find his parents. He offered Monty a bar of chocolate in exchange for finding them. They didn't even keep records, you know. The Jews, they weren't even worth the price of a piece of paper to the Nazis.”

“Would that help, do you think? To write about it in a book and share your experiences?”

“It's not about me. What happened in those camps is so much bigger.”

“I understand, but would it give you a sense that you had done something right if you told the world?”

“It's too late for that.”

“Why?”

He didn't respond. Maybe on some level he recognized that eating a grenade wasn't right. Otherwise, why would he want to hide it, but on the other hand, people would try to stop him, forcefully if necessary, if he went around making it common knowledge that he would be dead in seventeen days.

“What do you want to do with this painting?”

“Burn it.”

“Why do you want to burn it?”

He didn't say what came to mind, that he should have done more during the war to stop it, that he should have brought more attention to it, that he should have used his fame as Captain America to scream to the world that what they were doing to Morita's parents was the same damn thing the Germans had done to the Jews. 

He didn't say any of that. His voice had become a drop in the bucket. It had been diluted by Fox News and Rush Limbaugh, and all those other conservative assholes who'd used the name of Captain America for their own agendas. And maybe, deep down, he was a coward who had been trained by S.H.I.E.L.D and modern media that keeping his mouth shut and his head down was the safest way to avoid giving more of himself to the general public than he already had. His ma would be so disappointed in his cowardice. So would Bucky.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“What's that?”

“I think you were a young man who was thrust onto the world stage with no one to guide you but your own sense of right and wrong. I think you have a pattern of self-blame because you would rather be wrong than to ever be without control again. I think that you have allowed yourself to become Captain America and forgotten what it is to be Steve Rogers.”

“You wanna know what I think?”

“Yes, Steve. I do.”

“I think you're full of shit and T'Challa is giving me busy work by asking me to be here.”

“Thank you for your honesty.” She said it like there were no hard feelings, like he hadn't just insulted her and what she did to help people.

And he wanted to scream and shake her, somehow make her react like her being hurt by his comment would prove he was a terrible human being who deserved to suffer. Because if he didn't deserve to suffer on some cosmic level, then it meant he had been destined for pain. It meant he had been destined for tragedy. And it was so hard to swallow that some people were just born under a bad star.

She tried to get him to focus again, and he went through the motions of finishing up his painting, but his heart wasn't in it anymore. He counted the minutes until their session was over. When she finally dismissed him, he fled her office to make his way home. There was a box of pepperoni Hot Pockets with his name all over them in the communal fridge.

He heated them in the microwave and ate in the living room since everyone seemed to be elsewhere. The spice of the pizza sauce and heaviness of the cheese felt good on his tongue. It was comforting to have something in his mouth, comforting to know he had this one last bit of enjoyment left, that he wouldn't starve when times became lean again.

Unfortunately, Nat walked into the common room just as he cut into his second Hot Pocket. Steve dropped the plate like a hot rock and got up to leave.

She caught his arm on the way past. “You haven't finished your lunch.”

“Guess I lost my appetite. I should pick up after myself, though. My ma raised me better.”

“Steve.” She tried to trap him into making eye contact.

“Please, don't.”

“We're worried about you.”

“Don't be.”

The others filed into the hallway from Sam's room. What they'd all been doing in there, he wasn't sure, but the last thing he wanted was to be waylaid by the lot of them. Instead of sticking around, he grabbed a plate of brownies from the counter, wrenched away from her, and disappeared outside. 

*

Steve envisioned himself clinging to piece of broken rebar jutting out from a building as Sokovia lifted into the sky. His grip would loosen, fingers barely able to clench around the steel, and just as he felt himself slipping, a metal arm would shoot out to catch his forearm.

 _“I got you,”_ Bucky would say.

Sweet relief would make his heart skip beats, and he would gaze up into the stormy eyes he knew so well. Bucky would have caught him. Had their positions been reversed, Bucky wouldn't have let him fall. Because Bucky was good and wonderful and strong and everything Steve had never been.

Bucky would haul him to the ledge from which Steve had fallen and pull him to safety into the other man's strong arms. And Bucky would say, _“Thought I'd lost you, punk.”_

And Steve would clutch tightly to the man and ask, _“Why do you call me that?”_

And Bucky would respond, laughter in his voice, _“'Cause you are, sugar pie. Little runt like you? Always getting sick. Can't ever keep a job.”_

 _“Then why do you stay?”_ Steve would ask.

 _“'Cause you're_ my _punk.”_

And oh how those few words would be sweet music. They meant Bucky wanted him despite his flaws, despite his illnesses, despite his brokenness. _'Cause you're my punk. Mine. My own.'_ Then he could have turned right around and said them back on the quinjet in transit to Siberia when Bucky had said, _“I don't know if I'm worth all this, Steve.”_ He could have responded, _“'Cause you're my jerk.”_ But he hadn't. And that was why Bucky had gone back under.

“Steve.”

He startled like one hearing the sudden clap of a rifle.

“Tell me about your sketch.”

Delicate pencil strokes depicted the shape of the shield. That day's assignment was to sketch what he thought the shield represented, so it pinned him to the ocean floor. The last bubbles of oxygen burbled from his lungs, but he looked serene in the sketch. Like he wasn't frightened this time.

“What do you want me to say?”

“The shield drowns you in your sketch. Why do you think you drew it that way?”

He shrugged in response.

“Did you find being Captain America hard?”

“No.”

“Was it hard, do you think, leaving it behind in Siberia?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Maybe I was angry at Tony's suggestion the shield didn't belong to me. Howard technically made it, but it was my blood and sacrifice that shaped it. Sharon said it was government property. I guess maybe it felt like someone was taking something else away from me.”

The therapist's gaze remained pinned to him, giving him the time and space to expound on his answer.

“There's nothing else left of Steve Rogers. Everyone's dead or voluntarily went into stasis. Who am I if I don't have the shield? Who the fuck is Steve Rogers without Captain America. Sorry. Language.”

“Do you need someone else to define Steve Rogers?”

“No.” Then, quieter, he said, “I don't know.”

Again, she remained allowed the silence to stretch.

“I guess. Steve Rogers was a selfish asshole. Ma used to beg me not get into fights. Bucky too, but I did anyway. My fighting didn't accomplish anything. None of the people I stood up to changed. It just meant I came home bloody and put Ma and Bucky through Hell. I did that to make myself feel better. I wanted to join the army to make myself feel worth more.

“Then comes this crazy doctor who believed in me for some reason, and he called me a good man. He suggested that I remain a good man. Maybe I took it to heart too much. Maybe I became what he expected of me. Or at least convinced myself of that.

“So I wake up in the twenty-first century, and I've got all these people who've already decided what and who Captain America is. It was just easier to be what people expected of me. 'Cause I was confused enough as it was being thrown into the future and having to learn all this new technology and culture.

“God, do you know what I really hate?” 

“Tell me.”

“When people ask me how I like this century. They expect me to make a list of all the modern amenities your people have grown up with, and sure, some things are better; medicine, homosexuality being decriminalized, the abolishing of segregation; but sometimes I just wanna scream that I'm trapped here when I just want to go home.”

“What do you think you would tell people about Steve Rogers if you were not concerned about maintaining the image of Captain America?”

“God, I don't know.” He rubbed damp palms over his thighs. “Probably that I was a socialist, that I think unbridled capitalism is creating a massive gulf between the rich and the poor, and that I've been in love with Bucky Barnes since the day he told Mary Douglas to take a hike on Valentine's Day when she suggested I wasn't worth having a date to go to the dance with.”

“Do you regret being Captain America?”

“No.”

That warm stare of hers, the endless gulf of patience from which she drew her strength, would be the death of him. She was serene, her expression calm as the mirrored surface of a lake.

“Sometimes. I don't regret the people who are alive because I took on the mantle. I regret that Steve Rogers has died in the face of Captain America's rise.”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

Mixed emotions roared to the surface. He felt more vulnerable today than he ever had with her, the first chip in the fragile, porcelain veneer he'd constructed in place of a Vibranium shield. So he couldn't bring himself to respond and simply waved his hand to allow her to continue.

She offered a smile. “I think you are incredibly confused and are finding it difficult to define yourself in an era that is foreign to you. 'Your people' you said moments ago, as though you are not also a person living in this century. You struggle to see yourself as a modern man, and therefore, some part of you feels dissociated from your surroundings.

“Worse,” she continued, “S.H.I.E.L.D rushed you into service without proper mental healthcare.”

“They tried,” he interrupted. “I wasn't entirely cooperative.”

“Color me not surprised,” she responded with another fond smile. “You also struggle with your sense of self-worth. Part of you feels you should be grateful for Project Rebirth. Another part resents how much they changed your world. Then comes the upheaval of discovering Sergeant Barnes survived the fall from the train and all that entails. It is only natural for you to cling to him as your final link to a world that was wrenched violently from you. So you have become dependent on him as not only a friend but also an idealized version of what was taken from you: a sense of home.”

That subject was completely off-limits. He stiffened. His shoulders broadened, and his wild mane unfurled as the beast that had been dormant since choosing T'Challa's life over Bucky rumbled its discontent. He pushed to his feet, stretched his clack-a-clack claws into the carpet piles, and allowed waves of frustration to slough from his body as seismic waves. “We're done here.”

“Steve, the festering wound will never heal unless you confront these emotions.”

“I don't care!” he shouted. “Why can't any of you understand that? I don't want to get better; I just don't want to be here anymore.”

Turning, he rushed from her office to escape the tightening confines pushing in around him. The second he exited the office building into the bright sunshine, he could breathe again. The weight lifted from his shoulders. Twelve days. Just twelve more days until nothing had to matter anymore.

*

That night, Steve went into the armory stores and selected a grenade.

Sam found him the next morning sitting up in bed cradling it between his hands.

“Hey, man, I need you to give me that,” he said in his softest voice.

“No.” Not a drop of emotion colored Steve's voice, and he didn't bother making eye contact.

“Steve. Buddy, look at me.”

Slowly, he turned his eyes away from the wall.

“You don't really want to do this, man.”

“Says you.”

“You got options if you're still breathing. You pull that pin, and your options disappear.”

“That's the point.”

“What do you think Bucky's gonna do when he comes out of cryostasis and finds out his buddy blew himself up with a grenade?”

“Bucky isn't coming out of cryostasis.” The truth of those words slammed into him like bricks. “He isn't coming back.” He struggled to make words past the tremble of his lips. “He's not coming back, Sam. Just like Peggy's not coming back.”


	5. a c c e p t a n c e

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve Rogers accepts his mental illness.

Seven days before the expiration of T'Challa's ultimatum, Dr. P'Salle brought up the Sokovia Accords. 

That appointment was particularly unproductive, as he finally recognized the jumble of confusion knotted tightly in his chest. Self-doubt had crept into his interpretation of the events. Sure, he could say with clarity that keeping the information regarding the murder of Tony's parents a secret had been the wrong call. The man had deserved to know. Maybe if Steve had mentioned it earlier, they could have avoided Siberia and the tumultuous anger that had exploded there.

No, his confusion came from standing firm behind the decision he'd made during that period. Maybe he'd been wrong not to submit to the Accords. Maybe he should have stayed out of it the way Nat had suggested. Everyone had given him ample opportunity to allow the authorities to handle it. Hell, even Sam had suggested they explore all their options first, but Steve had gone in like a loaded weapon out of his desperation to save Bucky Barnes again. Just like he'd run off half-cocked to Austria.

Then there was the anger, an emotion reflected on the page at which he stared. He'd roughed out a sketch of a Chitauri beast and its gaping maw with row upon row of gnashing teeth. Innocent bystanders perched in front of the beast, and off to the side, stood Captain America with his thumb up his ass. Literally. And if the lines were gouged into the page, it was because he was so angry at the suggestion the Avengers should be held responsible for the destruction caused during that fight.

“Your pencil strokes are revealing in this image,” Dr. P'Salle said.

He shrugged.

“Can you tell me why you chose to draw yourself that way?”

“Apparently that's what the American people want us to do. Or at least some of them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Critics of the Avengers like to point out how much damage we leave in our wake.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“How the fuck do you think?” He realized his language seconds later and shrank in the chair. “Sorry.”

Dr. P'Salle didn't flinch. Nothing stirred beneath the calm waters of her expression. “No apologies necessary. Remember that your emotions are valid. Even anger. Do you struggle expressing anger?”

“Depends on who you ask,” he responded with a tight smile.

“Well, I am asking you, Steve.”

He shrugged.

“Stay with me. You are not walking this journey alone. I am here beside you. Can you express how it makes you feel when people are critical of the Avengers?”

Haltingly, he said, “Angry.”

“Why do you think you feel that way?”

“Because--” His jaw clenched as he stopped the tirade on the verge of exploding. “Because we're out there risking our lives. Each time we deploy, we do so knowing that one of us might not make it back. We've been damn lucky so far, but eventually, that luck's gonna disappear.”

“What would you say to a critic if they were here now. “

“Am I answering as Captain America or Steve Rogers?”

“Steve Rogers. I want to know what he would say.”

He fortified himself to answer without losing control of himself. “I'd ask them what else they expected us to do. Aliens invaded New York. Were we supposed to sit on the sidelines and watch Loki's invasion come to fruition? What the Hell do they think would have happen if we hadn't shown up? What do they think Crossbones was gonna do with that biological weapon he liberated from the CDC? I can guarantee it didn't involve bunnies and kittens.

“And yeah, we made some mistakes. I made some mistakes, and when bystanders die, it's always a tragedy, but some deaths can't be avoided for the sake of the greater good. God, I sound like Nick Fury, don't I?” He chuckled a little. 

“I'm trying to be compassionate while acknowledging the realities of war,” he finally continued. “We can't save everyone, but what are the costs if we don't even try? Either a handful of people die or millions. That's why I always got fed up with Bucky thinking he was making the hard calls so the symbol of Captain America could remain spotless. I'm wearing death on my shoulders like a shroud.

“You know, I kinda get why Tony was for the Accords. At least with the Accords in place, he won't need to live knowing he's culpable in making decisions that lead to bystander deaths. That's a Hell of a burden to carry, but I'd rather carry it myself than risk not being deployed to save a tiny village in New Guinea because it's not deemed important enough for Avengers intervention.”

“Are you still angry, do you think? About the Accords?”

“Yes. And I'm angry at Vision for suggesting the rise in attacks is a result of our existence, that our strength provokes challenge. I laid my body on the line to become a super-soldier because Red Skull already existed. I was created because evil already had the upper hand.”

“Do you wish you could express these feelings publicly?”

“Yes.”

“What, do you think, is stopping you?”

“Every word I say is put up in bright lights like a neon sign on the Vegas strip. Then it's a firestorm of people claiming I shouldn't have said it, that my opinion doesn't matter, or that I'm not a real American for not regurgitating the conservative agenda. God, what would they think if Captain America came out as anything but a heterosexual male? The media would implode. And every one of my very public mistakes would then be used to justify hatred toward the queer community.”

*

Steve was listless during his next appointment. He did as P'Salle instructed, but it meant nothing. The assignment was to express in charcoal how he felt in relation to the people in his life, so naturally, he made a humanoid shape blob of heavy charcoal in one corner of the paper. In the other corner, he put more effort into depicting Sam, Wanda, and the others. Bucky was decidedly absent from the piece.

The therapist picked up on that right away. “Why did you not include Sergeant Barnes?”

He shrugged and allowed his glance to drift toward the window overlooking a garden. There were a lot of gardens in Wakanda. Not like in Brooklyn or any of the other major cities in the United States. Wakandans valued nature and built their structures around it instead of bulldozing nature to fit their needs. Momentarily, he got caught up in a fantasy of Bucky strolling down the garden paths with him.

“Steve, I need you to cooperate with me.”

“I'm here because His Highness threatened to have me committed into a psychiatric ward with twenty-four-seven suicide prevention if I didn't come, not because I want to be here.”

“Do you resent him for that.”

“Yes. It's my life. If I want to end it, that's my choice.”

“You do not think it selfish to ask the people who care about you to endure your loss?”

“Just one more instance of Steve Rogers being selfish.” He sat quietly for a moment before saying, “I didn't ask them to care about me.”

“Do you resent them for wanting you to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you not include Sergeant Barnes in your piece?”

Something wet tickled down his face. He didn't realize he was crying until tears dripped off his chin. He wanted to wipe it away but something P'Salle had said in an earlier session came back to haunt him. Something about not wiping the mess away, about staying with the mess to process it. “I guess part of me resents him for leaving again.” He huffed a breath. “I've had to carry that man's death once already. I crashed a plane in the Arctic ocean days later. Lasted a little longer this time.”

“It is not Sergeant Barnes' job to give your life meaning.”

“No, I know, and I don't wanna hold him back. He should do what he needs to do for himself. That means I should do what I need to do for my own happiness. Truth is, if he were here right now, he should be smart and run the Hell away from me.”

“Do you think he would?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really want to die?”

“Yes.”

“Why, do you think?”

“I want everything to stop. There's no use for me anymore. I'm a relic of a less cynical world. What is the point of putting in the effort to live when things will never be better than they are right now.”

“Do you recognize that your depression convinces you of that when the reality can be vastly different?”

“No.”

“Have you considered medications? Depression isn't sadness, Captain. In 1917, Sigmund Freud wrote an essay postulating that depression, or melancholia, was a symptom of loss, either real or symbolic, and pain over this failure resulted in anger and self-hate. Around that time, depression was treated with a lobotomy and electroshock therapy. We have progressed much since those days and understand now that depression can be a symptom of unbalanced brain chemicals. There are medications to help balance those chemicals.”

“That's fine and dandy, but the serum would have fixed my brain chemicals.”

“Depression can also be maladaptive behaviors in response to exterior stimuli. You learned to respond to your disabilities in childhood by fighting to prove yourself. Now that you have the power to prove yourself, you have not learned the resultant coping strategies to prevent your earlier defiance from affecting your healthful body.”

“So you're suggesting that...”

“You think things will not get better because you have conditioned yourself to be blind to possibilities. There are other career paths you could take, but since your early adulthood was plagued by illness and disability, you were not taught to look for possibilities that might improve your happiness.”

“You're saying I should try more things?”

“It would be a start. Change your environment and your expectations, and you might find yourself with more motivation to confront the maladaptive behaviors that previously saw you through difficult periods. Stop shutting yourself away from new experiences, and be open to different enjoyments.”

He ducked his head. “It feels wrong to enjoy things when Bucky-- When he can't.”

“When Sergeant Barnes emerges from cryostasis, he must needs learn the same lessons, but his journey is not yours, and yours must become independent of his. Why are you afraid of stepping away from Sergeant Barnes?”

“He did the same for me when we were younger. He should have moved on with his life and grown beyond taking care of me. He didn't. What right do I have to do differently?”

“Do you want to know what I think, Steve?”

“God, no, but you're gonna tell me anyway.” He managed a small smile.

Hers warmed the room much more than his. “I think your very upbringing bred you to become dependent on him. You have said yourself that he became your caretaker after your mother's death. He worked to pay for your medications and hospitalizations. He assisted with putting food on your table and helped sustain a roof over your head. Living that closely with someone breeds dependence. You have not figured, either from lack of opportunity or will, how to evolve beyond needing him.”

“I--” Naturally, he wanted to immediately deny it. He just couldn't.

“Think about that for tomorrow's session. That is your homework today, and please remember that you may call me any time of the day or night when feeling hounded by dark thoughts. I am here less because T'Challa has asked me to and more because I care about you.”

Steve was eager to get out of the chair after that declaration. The last thing he wanted was someone else giving a fuck about his future, just one more person to let down when he finally decided to blow himself to smithereens. Friendship came with pressure.

Sam awaited him outside P'Salle's office, as he wasn't even allowed to go to and from her building on his own anymore. What was obvious was that he'd lost trust points with Sam after the incident with the grenade. Poor, faithful Sam who didn't know when to cut his losses.

They strolled back to their compound, Sam with an angry jut to his chin, and the last thing Steve expected to see upon entering the communal space was Bucky Barnes seated on the sofa wearing jeans and a t-shirt, the remnants of his metal arm capped by a black sleeve.

“Bucky,” the name escaped him as a whispered prayer.

Bucky tensed. Then relaxed. And finally arose. He turned, so they could face each other again. The man looked exhausted, but beyond that, he looked enraged.

“Stevie,” Bucky said, voice scratchy, face etched with concern. “Fuck, Stevie. Why? I turn my back, and the first thing you do is try to blow yourself up with a grenade? Why you always trying to die on me, pal? Why the fuck would you... Good Christ.”

The next thing Steve knew, he had both arms full of Bucky Barnes, who made like an octopus to enfold Steve as much as humanly possible. Feeling the thickness of Bucky's body against him settled him in ways it probably shouldn't have. A missing piece slotted into place.

“You're here.” A beat of silence. “How? Why? We didn't find a way to defuse the trigger words.” It came as a surprise when he glanced around and found them alone. Sam had disappeared somewhere after entering the common room. The others were conveniently absent.

“Those fat-heads I was depending on to take care of you decided they'd exhausted all other resources in making you see sense, so they brought out the big guns. Steve.” Bucky stepped back so they could make eye contact. “Why?”

Rapid blinking did little to stop the moisture building in his eyes. “I'm fucked up.”

“You almost killed a friend because of me. That's gonna do some damage in here, big guy.” Bucky tapped a finger against Steve's chest. “Doesn't mean you're fucked up. Means you're stubborn as Hell and trying to carry the weight on your shoulders again just like you always do.”

Steve blurted out, “Are you gonna leave again? When I'm-- If I get better, are you gonna go back under?” Because if that were the case, he had zero motivation to invest in recovery.

“I'm not safe. You know that.”

The tears he'd been trying to blink away finally slipped free, fat drops dripping from the ends of his lashes and tickling their way down his cheeks. Whatever bright spark of life that had ignited by Bucky's presence snuffed out. In its wake remained darkness, the utter blackness that existed at the bottom of the ocean where all hope went to die beneath the pressure and gloom. Also, there was anger.

Steve wrenched his shoulders away from Bucky's grasp. “That is such bullshit, Bucky. We can protect you here. Who here would know or use your code words? Fucking go back to sleep if you want. Slither away again. Do what you gotta do, but don't fucking excuse it as anything more than you running from that mess in your head instead of fighting to stay.”

“Pot meet fucking kettle,” Bucky exploded. “Least I just went into cryostasis. You're here trying to blow yourself up with a goddamn grenade to escape your mess.”

“I might be fucked up, but you're a coward.”

“Well, punk, I got some news for you,” Bucky fired back.

“Stop calling me that!” It exploded from him with the force of a gunshot and left eerie quiet behind.

Bucky raised his hand in a placating gesture.

“Look it up sometime.”

With that parting shot, he stormed down the hallway, breaking left into his bedroom, the door of which was slammed with a final emphasis on his desire to be left alone. Once there, he collapsed onto the bed, kicked off his shoes, and crawled into his pillow where he wept, and fuck, he hated crying.

He realized suddenly that he'd become crippled by depression. All he seemed capable of was eating, sleeping, and crying. The things he'd once enjoyed, like listening to music and exercising, seemed pale in comparison to the hulking storm cloud hanging over his head and preventing the sun from shining.

Nothing mattered anymore. Not even the brighter spark of Bucky being awake. He stretched his hand across the bed to reach toward the fantasy version of Bucky, who smiled at him and laced their fingers together. The smile crinkled lines around his eyes. It was a big smile full of teeth and warmth, and Steve found himself returning the expression even through his tears.

That Bucky scooted closer and brushed soft lips against Steve, kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, and finally his mouth. Then he would say, _“You're hurting so much, sugar pie.”_

“They won't let me, Buck. I tried with the grenade, but they caught me.”

 _“Just let me hold you like this for a while,”_ Bucky would say. Strong arms would bracket Steve and pull his head into the soft skin beneath the other man's chin. _“Rest, honey bunch. I've got you.”_

Steve fell asleep with both arms clutched around the big body pillow he'd rummaged from some other part of the compound. It filled his arms just right, like maybe he held a body close.

*

There were five days left to fulfill his agreement with T'Challa when Steve woke with a hard on. It was his first erection since the events of what the others referred to as the Civil War. Personally, he thought the actual Civil War had been such a traumatic historical time that using its moniker to describe a handful of enhanced people getting in a fight over ideals was disrespectful. It would be like calling the tragedy of Jonestown, Guyana the Holocaust. Both had been awful, but one came on such a massive scale as to make the comparison profane.

Those thoughts took care of his erection effectively, as he didn't really feel like putting forth the effort to masturbate. Sitting up, he looked at his surroundings, at the piles of trash and empty soda bottles and dirty clothes littering the floor, and winced. He looked at his own body and saw for the first time the extra weight bloating him and the sticky feeling of not having washed in a while.

Today, the ever-present cloud seemed farther away, so he showered and dressed in loose sweats and a baggy t-shirt he must have stolen from Sam. After picking up a few bits of trash to fill a garbage bag, he hauled it from his room to deposit in the compound dumpster.

Everyone else filled the communal living space where Scott was cracking eggs into a skillet and Wanda was setting the table with Natasha. They glanced up and seemed surprised at his presence. Wanda wordlessly pulled a chair out at the table and patted the seat to indicate he should join them. Emem, who rode around on her shoulder, dropped down and scampered over to climb up Steve's body.

“Hi there, doll face,” he murmured while padding over to accept Wanda's offer to sit. Wanda pressed a kiss into his temple.

“How many eggs you want, Ca-- Steve,” asked Scott.

“None for me, thank you.”

“Make him two with yolks and three whites, extra on the veggies and cheese,” Sam said.

Steve glanced over. He found out why when, instead of depositing the plate in front of him, Sam carried it to the sofa and coffee table and beckoned Steve over.

“Steve's gonna have breakfast here. The rest of us will eat at the table. Bucky, get your brainwashed ass in here in thirty seconds, or so help me! Family breakfast!”

The other man jogged into the room, exchanged a quick glance with Steve, and Mock-Murder-Stared Sam before taking his place at the kitchen table with the others. They didn't speak. What the Hell did you say to your oldest friend after calling them a coward?

Once people was settled, Sam said grace, and everyone dug in. It may have looked to an outsider like Steve had been black-listed from the dinner table, but he recognized the care Sam had taken immediately. He was positioned in a way that his back faced the others. It meant no one could watch him eating while still keeping him present for meal time.

Every now and then, Emem reached her little hands out for a piece of fruit clinging to the side of his plate. He indulged her. The banana seemed her favorite, but she also helped herself to grapes and chunks of papaya. Whenever she got a choice morsel, she wrapped her arms around his head and mimed giving him a kiss. It was one of the sweetest things he'd ever experienced.

He listened to the others chatter about their mornings. T'Challa had finally given clearance to have Clint's wife and children flown in from the States. They would arrive at the end of the week. The relief and joy in the archer's voice could have moved the stoniest of hearts. Scott's daughter would arrive the week after to spend summer vacation in Wakanda.

Everyone was finally getting their wishes fulfilled, and it made Steve glad, one of the few things that could these days. They had sacrificed so much to come when he needed them. How did he repay their kindness? By burrowing down the rabbit hole. Something P'Salle had said struck him. If he died, they were the ones left behind to mourn.

Eventually, he volunteered to clean up after breakfast, and the others filed past one at a time, Nat, Wanda, and Scott kissing his cheek while Clint and Sam clapped his shoulder. He didn't realize Bucky had remained behind until the man came up beside him to bump their hips together and help by drying the dishes Steve washed.

“You remember Matty Callahan?”

“Kid who used to be in our catechism classes? The little guy with glasses and ginger hair?”

“Yeah, that's him. His pa was one of the church elders. One of those family men who was always sweet on his wife and nurturing to his kids. Used to be I'd leave catechism and overhear Mr. Callahan calling Matty a punk. I grew up thinking that if a guy like Mr. Callahan would use that word for his boy, then it must be a good word.”

“That's why you call me a punk?”

“If I'd known. Christ, Stevie, if I'd thought for a second to look it up, I'da never... You gotta believe I'da never used that kind of word around you if I knew.”

“Matty was queer. I used to run into him from time to time at the Saint George Hotel.”

Bucky went utterly quiet. Then, softly, he asked, “Since when did you go to Saint George's?”

Confusion back-filled his earlier relief, and he paused, dish poised in his hand. “Buck, I told you as you were shipping out that last time. I'm--” He paused there looking for the right word, but a word to describe what he is failed him. “I'm not straight. How'd you not--” He realized moments later. “Sorry. That's one of the things you haven't remembered yet?”

Bucky turned, propped his hip against the counter, and watched Steve with an unblinking gaze. “I remember you seeing me to the train. God, the look in your eyes almost made me sick, like you envied me, and fuck, I was so scared. Fellas were dying over there left and right. Then you said 'love you,” but I didn't know you meant it like that. Christ, Stevie, we used to say that to each other all the time.”

The dish clattered harder than necessary into the strainer, and Steve dried wet palms on his sweats. Words clogged in his throat. Nothing came out despite his inner desire to say them. Standing on the precipice for the second time was much harder, but then, he reminded himself he didn't have a lot to lose anymore. Dead men had nothing to fear. Finally he said, “I was in love with you. Not as my brother or best friend. I was so deep the thought of losing you gave me nightmares.”

“Oh.” Silence. “Christ, Stevie.” The man's pupils dilated with surprise. For long heart beats, it appeared Bucky had no idea how to respond. Moments later, he fled. The soft click of the man's bedroom door closing was the strike of a hammer against the final nail in a coffin.

Bewilderment gave way to surprise that bled into horror. Then came the sadness. Finally, the affirmation of every dark thought he'd ever been plagued with. That was twice Bucky Barnes had abandoned him in the face of his confession of love. There wouldn't be a third.

Earlier good mood destroyed, he returned to his bed for the remainder of the morning, pulled the blankets around his head, and slept, but his dreams were plagued by memories of the apartment he'd grown up in with his ma. Only it was different. It was in the middle of renovations and filled with a confused jumble of lumber and sheet rock, buckets of nails, hammers, and saws. Steve, small and sickly, struggled through the heaps of items threatening to suffocate him.

He woke with a start. Another knock rang hollow against his door before said door cracked open.

“Steve, it's time for your appointment,” Sam said. “Shit, I thought you were having a good day.”

Swallowing around the stale taste of his mouth, he moved to sit up, empty candy wrappers rustling around him as he did so. He didn't remember eating after coming back to his room until vague recollections returned of waking up long enough to stuff another Reese Cup in his mouth.

“What happened, man?” The other man settled on the edge of the bed and touched Steve's ankle.

“I don't know.”

“Hey, look at me, okay?”

Reluctantly, he lifted his gaze to meet Sam's.

“You mean a Hell of a lot to us, but we can't make you better. I need you to know that. You're the only one who can do the hard work to beat this demon that's gotten into you. At some point, though, we're gonna have to take care of ourselves to make sure you don't take the rest of us down with you.”

“Good.” He reached out to pat Sam's knee. “Do that. Make sure the rest of them do the same.”

“Come on, don't do that. Used to be I knew this guy named Steve. He was a little guy at one time who was sick a lot. Lost his dad before he was born. Lost his ma to TB. Lived through scarlet fever and rheumatic fever. Got through the flu about a billion times. Had real bad asthma. That guy, he didn't give up even when fate seemed to be telling him he should. Something got him through all that crap, and it wasn't his witty sense of humor.”

Steve huffed a bit of laughter.

“Where'd that guy go?” asked Sam.

“The guy he was in love with died, crashed a plane into the Arctic, got woken up decades in the future, found out the guy he loved wasn't really dead, almost had to kill him, found out the organization he died to destroy lived on, forgot how to have faith. You know. Normal stuff.”

“That guy found a reason to live, though. He found a reason to keep going despite the odds.”

“I guess he wanted to make a difference, show the world he wasn't a mistake, that he was more than the size of his body. I guess he wanted to prove them wrong.”

“So what's stopping you, man? Prove them wrong. Stop letting the world define Steve Rogers.”

“Can I do that?”

“Oh, man. Can you ever.”

Somewhere, Steve found the gumption to brush his teeth, take another shower, and get dressed in adult clothes. It helped that Sam was right there every step of the way making the easy decisions for him so he could concentrate on the big ones. Things like “get up and take a shower” and “I scrounged up these pants and this shirt that'll fit you” and “man, you got fur growing on your teeth?”

Dr. P'Salle waited for them outside her office building. She was dressed casually for a change with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. A big, floppy hat shaded her face. The difference was enough they nearly walked past her without stopping.

“Good afternoon, Steve. Today, I thought we would try something different. I have taken the liberty of setting up our art session in the garden. We should take advantage of such a beautiful day. Mr. Wilson may pick you up after.”

“Sure,” said Sam. “I'll meet you at the garden in two hours. Remember what I said.”

The garden behind her office building was empty this time of day, so they would have enough privacy. He was startled to see a pair of eight feet by eleven feet canvases set up along with buckets of various paints and two pairs of overalls. They pulled the overalls on over their clothing, and P'Salle cracked a bucket of paint open. It was a beautiful cerulean blue.

“Today, I would like us paint self-portraits again. Do you remember our first session when I asked you to sketch how you see yourself? In this instance, I would like us to represent who we aspire to be.”

“I'm not sure I can do that.”

“Perhaps you can start by writing down the qualities you wish you possessed.”

A direction in mind, he folded himself lotus style on the grass with a notebook and worked up a list beginning with 'kind' and ending with 'generous.' Reading it back to himself revealed the flaws, though. They were all generic qualities representing an entirely selfless person, which was an impossible standard for any human to undertake. Everyone possessed moments of selfishness. Any mentally healthy adult should want things for themselves.

He switched to a fresh page to restart and came up with a list fitting his sense of self more comfortably: driven, compassionate, steadfast, confident, kind, independent, logical, loyal, caring. List in hand, he approached the canvas to block out a humanoid shape with rough charcoal. Only then did he come near the paint and brushes. They looked less foreign than when he'd begun art therapy.

Several strokes in and he wanted to throw brush and paint across the garden. Envisioning himself in a different body seemed impossible. He'd been so self-focused the past couple of months that he'd gotten sick of himself and couldn't expand beyond his narrowed view-point. It was an exercise in futility.

A thought gave him pause, though. He'd already done this task once before, had given his body to science and come out a changed man with no thought to consequence or what had been left behind. Nothing stopped him from doing so again except the quicksand his mind seemed mired in.

He didn't work like a man fevered. He didn't become lost in the process of creating. The birds still chirped around him, but the sounds of the city faded into the background. He forgot, momentarily, that he was in public, that anyone could enter the garden and look at the exposed nerve he'd become. It was the first time his hyper-awareness had relaxed since the events in Lagos.

Eventually, he stepped back from his work and looked up. He hadn't actually used most of the canvas, as he hadn't bothered painting to scale. What looked back at him was a tall, broad man whose shoulders rested easily and whose stance seemed relaxed. The biggest difference could be seen in his eyes, which had received the longest focus of his brushes. They were light, lacked the marks of care etching his own skin, and seemed inviting.

“Tell me what thoughts weigh upon you,” said Dr. P'Salle.

He was quiet for a moment to find the words. “I've been thinking a lot about what you said last week, about how my youth bred me to become dependent on Bucky. I think you're right.” He huffed laughter. “I told Nat once that even when I had nothing, I had Bucky. Guess part of me thought there was something romantic about being that dialed in to one particular person. It never occurred to me that maybe it was holding me back.”

A few moments passed where she allowed him the comfort of resting in his own thoughts. He spoke again before she needed to prompt him. “I told him today that I was in love with him back before the war. He ran away.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Rejected. Silly. It didn't feel good, that's for sure.”

“You have to understand, Captain, that Sergeant Barnes has his own path toward healing to take. Right now, you both need to be incredibly selfish. Absolutely, you should support each other in your individual journeys, but neither of you are in a place where a healthy relationship is likely.”

“I wasn't asking him for anything.”

“How did you feel when it was revealed he had been woken?”

“Shocked.” He nibbled his bottom lip. “Honestly, I had this vision of him coming out of cryostasis, and there would be this huge reveal where he suddenly realized what my confession of love had meant. It was a stupid thing to want, but I guess I imagined the whole running through a field of wildflowers and throwing ourselves into each other's arms. Instead, we fought.”

“That must have been disappointing.”

He nodded.

“Tell me about this man.” She indicated his canvas.

Steve glanced up. He was struck, though, not by what had taken shape on his canvas but by the sister-image Dr. P'Salle had created. Hers was the same as the woman sitting in front of him. Nothing stood out as being remarkably different, and he wondered, briefly, if that was what it meant to be comfortable in one's own skin. Color heated his cheeks. Something close to envy tightened his chest.

“I want mine to be like yours.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You look the same. It must mean you're comfortable with the person you are.”

She smiled. It rounded her cheeks and emphasized the stark contrast between her teeth and skin tone. “That was wonderful, Steve.”

“What was?”

“You expressed a want.”

“I didn't-- Huh. I suppose I did.” The smile that came forth felt funny on his face.

“Tell me about him, though.” She indicated his canvas again. “What do you think are his best traits?”

“His loyalty, compassion, and steadfastness. He can fight for the little guy and use those strong shoulders to help those physically weaker to climb higher.”

“Steve, you are already all those things. You just have trouble recognizing those traits in yourself, and that is where you need help, fighting through the gloom of depression and maladaptive behavior to recognize what is already there. Would you like to look in the mirror and recognize those qualities?

“Yes.”

“Then let us begin.”

*

On Day One Post-Ultimatum, Dr. P'Salle introduced him to Dr. B'Antu. Transitioning from art therapy to talk therapy wasn't easy for Steve. It wasn't that he stopped the art therapy completely. He'd built a rapport with Dr. P'Salle and couldn't afford to lose that, but they cut their sessions down to once a week, leaving him plenty of time to meet with his new therapist. 

Dr. B'Antu was a deceptively mild-mannered man but much less gracious at tolerating Steve's maladaptive behavior. The first time Steve tried skipping an appointment, Dr. B'Antu showed up at Steve's bedroom door personally. 

“Are you sick?” he asked.

“Sick in the head,” Steve responded.

“Are your legs broken?”

“No, but my head is.”

“Do you require a wheelchair to make it to my office?”

“No?”

“Then dress and meet me there, or I will arrange to have our sessions here at the compound.”

The last thing Steve wanted was to have this man invading his private space on the regular, so he did as instructed, appearing inside the man's office within twenty minutes and dressed poorly in raggedy sweats and a hoodie. Dr. B'Antu said nothing about his appearance and got down to the business of excising all the rotten, festering filth sickening Steve's spirit.

The fifth day after his predetermined expiration date, he got into a massive fight with Bucky, who thought he had the right to ream Steve out for not taking better care of himself. As if Barnes had any place critiquing another person's self-care. Considering Barnes was the first one to go running for the cryostasis pod whenever the mood struck. Which was often.

Eventually, Steve got entirely sick of that threat hanging over his head and called Barnes' bluff. Bucky seemed flabbergasted by the turn of direction, lost track of his argument, and hoofed it back to his room to sulk. The Secret Avengers got very used to Steve and Bucky sulking in separate corners. Rumor had it there was a daily bet as to which of the men would back down first.

Constant friction became a daily grind. They weren't best pals having a rough patch. They were two entirely different men learning where they fit in each other's lives after decades of separation. No way did they go back to their old patterns and find comfort in the give and pull that had once guided them.

Bucky post-Winter Solder was more reserved, less apt to laugh, and had forgotten how to tease without teeth gnashing at truth. Post-Captain America Steve was trying not to need Bucky anymore. He was harder, more cynical, and much more guarded with his own heart. They were no longer weak where the other was strong or strong where the other was weak. Truths that had been true no longer were.

The only thing that remained the same was their dedication to making it work, which brought another contentious area to light; Steve wanted Bucky to try getting help accepting the new Bucky. He got first-hand knowledge of the frustration a loved one felt while watching someone they cared about misstep so often. Banging his head against a wall would have been preferable.

For some reason, it changed on the seventh day post-bargain. There was nothing special about that day. Steve's art therapy had gone pretty well, and T'Challa's scientists had brought good news in the form of fresh brain scans showing cellular regeneration of the dark areas in Bucky's brain. Those areas had been burned out by Hydra's machine to prevent the return of his memories. It had made him more cooperative, less apt to put the pieces of lies Hydra told him together. With enough time, there was hope Bucky's brain would fully recover.

That night, Steve's door creaked open. He reached for the gun he kept in his nightstand drawer only to still when Bucky was revealed by moonlight. The man came and eased onto the side of Steve's bed, legs apart, elbows braced upon knees. Pallid flesh hinted at dark thoughts eating the man's conscience.

“I asked T'Challa to set me up with someone today. We had our first meeting.”

“That's real good, Buck.”

“Thing is, if I'm gonna do this, then I need you to start holding me accountable.”

“I'll do whatever it takes to support you. You know that.”

“Do I?” Bucky turned, confusion obvious in the tilt of his dark brows and the rigidness of his jaw. “I've done a lot of bad things for Hydra. There are people I've hurt. Even if I did it unwillingly, they're still hurt. They will go without justice served.”

“We don't prosecute soldiers for following orders unless they know those orders are illegal. You had no agency and no concept of right and wrong, so we prosecute Hydra for making those decisions.”

“You don't understand. You've gotta stop putting me on a pedestal. Stop throwing yourself between me and the world. Let me do this based on my own merit, not 'cause I'm Captain America's best pal.”

“Are you asking me to let a corrupt organization bring you in and give you a mockery of a trial because they're looking for a scapegoat to pin all Hydra's ills on? 'Cause I'm not gonna do that.”

“I'm asking you to stop doing that to your own detriment.”

He didn't know what to say in response.

“'Cause I gotta say, buddy, that when they woke me and told me you'd gone off your rocker without me, I kinda felt responsible for your decisions. I'm not gonna be responsible for your inability to take fucking care of yourself anymore. You gotta learn how to do it on your own, and I gotta learn how to stop running away when things get hard.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, you agree, or okay, you've heard me but aren't gonna cooperate?”

Steve closed the distance between them and threaded their fingers together. “The first one. To the end of the line, pal. Whatever that looks and whatever it takes for us to get there.”


	6. r e c o v e r y

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve Rogers learns how to cope and realizes he can live a full life even with depression.

Recovery wasn't a blink-and-you-miss-it sort of process but an uphill slog riddled with many backslides. It included days spent desperately clinging to the lone lamppost illuminated by a spotlight in a sea of blackness. Taking one step away from the norm meant becoming lost in the darkness, and God, he did not want to take that step, a corpse frozen in rigor mortis, too frightened to move forward.

Then there were days like mid-July, when Steve padded into the common room to find Bucky standing beside a pair of tables and chairs. The chairs were arranged back to back. The tables situated in front of each chair and set with candles and dinnerware.

“What's this?” he asked, a little wary from the newness of the experience.

Bucky pigeon-toed, swallowed, and looked away. “I thought we could-- You know.” And shy Bucky was such a revelation. His pal hadn't possessed a shy bone in his body, but this new man who emerged from the ashes of Hydra seemed more uncertain, more tentative.

“Is this a--” Steve found himself tongue-tied too. “Date?”

“If you want it to be.”

“Kinda gotta know what you want, though. 'Cause the last time-- You walked away, Buck. When I told you how I felt about you before you shipped off. You walked away. You don't gotta do this because I'm an idiot who let his heart run away with his mouth.”

Bucky stood quietly, fingertips tapping against the side of his thigh. Words followed, tentative, halting. “My ma caught me once. You remember Seamus McKinney?”

“Sure. Real small kid. Red hair. Freckles.”

“She came home from work and caught us making time on the sofa. About blistered my backside. Marched me down to Father Kilpatrick and made me go to confessional. Said if she ever caught me doing that again, then I wasn't gonna be her son any more.”

“Jesus,” he breathed.

“It isn't that I didn't love you, Steve. Loving you got me through the nightmares. I wasn't gonna drag you down to Hell right along with me. Figured I deserved whatever was coming my way. Because I couldn't stop. God help me, I couldn't stop. Every time I saw a pretty piece of tail...”

Steve surged forward and cupped Bucky's face, thumbs catching moisture that escaped from the painful memories. “It's okay. Jesus Christ, it's okay.”

Bucky eventually continued, “Anyhow, figure I already been to Hell. There isn't anything more the devil can do to me after what Hydra did, so I better enjoy the time I got left, right?” Maybe it was gallows humor, but Bucky laughed, a husky sound. “Have dinner with me. A date.”

“With bells on, pal.”

And it was achingly poignant the way Bucky pulled Steve's chair out and pushed it toward the table once he was settled, seating himself only once Steve was comfortable. Sure, they were back to back, but Steve could lean his shoulders into the strong shoulders behind him and allow the contact to ground him in reality. The scent of Bucky filled his nostrils. The man's voice cradled him.

The care that had gone into setting up their dinner was so evident. Once they were settled, a waiter brought out plates without remarking on the unusual arrangement, fine china filled with fresh seafood and spring vegetables, enough to feed two super soldiers. To follow, a Heavenly slice of New York cheesecake that melted on Steve's tongue.

Conversation started haltingly. They were still getting to know one another, after all, but Bucky loosened up the longer the meal lasted, and soon, a wonderfully fresh sense of humor emerged. The old Bucky, the man who'd died in the Alps, had possessed a rather crass sense of humor. Fart jokes, sexual innuendos, and sometimes mean-spirited pranks. It had been their biggest source of contention as kids. This Bucky, however, found none of that amusing.

Rather, he found joy in watching a pair of butterflies chase each other outside the big, picture windows. He laughed over a story Steve told about Sam being swarmed by pigeons in Central Park. And, a touch of haunted remembrance to his tone, he shared stories of laughter with a young Black Widow student named Natalia Romanoff and the way she had teased him for bringing her flowers.

Because Hydra hadn't killed Bucky's gentleness. Hydra had tried. They had failed. That was why they had constantly needed to reprogram him. Because the parts of Bucky that were so ingrained inside his genetics refused to die despite their numerous attempts.

Steve reached back by his hip, clasped Bucky's fingers, and squeezed them tenderly.

*

Relations between the Avengers and the United Nations were beginning to break down. That much was obvious when an alien entity took control of the citizens in small town in Romania. General Ross, who headed the Avengers Deployment Operations, made the decision to bench the Avengers in favor of allowing local authorities to handle the developing situation, choosing instead to send them to investigate threats of terrorism against Roxxon oil shipments coming in from Russia.

Steve watched the news bulletins in horror as the alien presence spread quickly throughout the population. People became infected, and within twenty-four hours, they were on the streets again barricading the town from invasion. He assumed the alien presence was building a base of operations of sort, possibly to prepare for a larger invasion to come.

The Secret Avengers voted to deploy and oversee things themselves. Because that was the way they were doing things now. Steve led in the field, but all decisions were now made by majority vote. Bucky, who was waiting on an operation to have a new limb implanted, practically turned into a hissing, snapping cat when it was suggested he remain behind.

In the end, it was decided he would go, simply because the super soldier serum Steve and Bucky possessed might give them some resistance to infection. Still, everyone deployed in full containment gear to avoid breathing in the atmosphere, as it was unknown how the alien presence spread.

They parachuted inside the containment zone surrounding Nádejov, Romania. Bucky pinched his hip hard in response to Steve waiting longer than he should have to deploy his chute, prompting them to get into a minor scowling match that ended with Nat rolling her eyes, grabbing Steve's ear lobe, and pulling him along behind her as they made their way toward town. Bucky, being the mature individual he was, stuck his tongue out behind the clear mask covering his mouth and nose.

Silently, they made their way through town, disabling anyone they came across with an aerosol mist created by T'Challa's people. The mist rendered them unconscious within moments. It didn't take them long to find out, though, that rendering the host unconscious did not prevent the alien presence from communicating, as they walked into an ambush near the town square.

Sam and Nat were taken captive as they tried to retreat, the pair of them bound to poles outside the large community center where the rest of the team could see them through scopes from the higher elevation they'd fallen back to. A burly Romanian man appeared carrying two golden cylinders. Inside those cylinders were what Steve could only describe as snakes. They were thin and covered in golden scales that glittered under the moonlight. And he had a bad fucking feeling about this.

“You only have one arm,” Scott said. “If you accidentally hit them... Look, send me in. I'll shrink down and stop them from doing whatever the heck they're doing with those Do Not Wants.”

“Clint can't cover them both at the same time, and there isn't time for you arrive,” Bucky insisted.

Steve stripped the rifle off his shoulder and thrust it out toward Bucky. “Balance it on Wanda's shoulder. Take the shots. Scott and I will get down there to free them as soon as we can.”

Wanda's eyes widened comically. She glanced back and forth between Bucky and Steve before saying in song-song, “The things I do for my family.”

Steve and Scott peeled away from the main group to head back down the hill. They lost sight of the goings on in front of the community center but heard the gunshot from Bucky's rifle that destroyed one of the alien snakes. Clint's bow made no such noise. The moment the shot rang out, people scattered around the area released horrific keening sounds as the collective conscious mourned their brethren.

He did not feel a single ounce of compassion when he disabled their leader while Scott released Nat and Sam from their restraints, Sam muttering something about not getting paid enough for alien snakes. Nat, on the other hand, seemed terribly amused by the whole thing.

The team reformed in the courtyard and found the alien leader in the basement of the community center, a giant, bloated slug in the process of giving birth to new snakes. Clint took far too much pleasure in exploding it with an explosive round. Alien guts rained down around and on them. Steve was going to smell that for a month, he was sure.

T'Challa, meanwhile, flew in a team of specialists who engineered an antibiotic that destroyed the alien snakes already implanted in people. It broke down their bodies, allowing the host bodies to pass them through their fecal matter.

The whole mission went off with minimum loss of life, and when General Ross heard about it, he about had kittens on national media, denouncing the team of unregistered superheros breaching sovereign borders. Romania's government gave a more dignified response that basically amounted to “Go fuck yourself; we're super stoked they helped us save our people.” Later, they were invited to a small ceremony by the mayor of Nádejov where they were welcomed as heroes, given keys to the city, and showered with the kind of feast you needed a wheelbarrow to take you home from.

*

Steve only left his room the next day to raid the pantry when he was overwhelmed by the sudden paranoia that food would soon become scarce, and if he didn't eat it now, he wouldn't have it to eat later. Stocked up with goodies, he barricaded himself back in his room and only let Bucky in after Sam threatened to call Dr. B'Antu, who refused to take his bullshit excuses.

Bucky stretched out beside him in bed but didn't remark on the amount of empty junk food wrappers. In fact, he reached into a box of oatmeal cream pies, and scarfed one down himself, which gave Steve the comfort level necessary to continue self-soothing. They spent the day watching Forensic Files with their feet tangled together beneath the blanket.

*

The day after that, Tony Stark called. He simply said, “I'm holding a press conference this afternoon. You might want to watch.” The call ended before Steve could actually say anything in response.

Every member of the Secret Avengers plus T'Challa, who snuggled up next to Sam on an oversized armchair, sat down in front of the ridiculously large television to catch the press conference. Members of the Avengers filed out to sit at a long conference table. Tony took the center podium. For a brief second, Pepper appeared at the edges of the screen.

“So I guess everybody's heard about that gross bit of business out of Romania, huh? I mean, alien snakes taking people as host bodies and preparing for a larger invasion force? Nasty. As some of you know, the Avengers weren't deployed to Romania. A certain general who sits on the ADC shipped us off to guard Roxxon oil tankers in transit from Russia.

“Gotta protect those oil dollars. Go team!”

Pepper cleared her throat.

“At the next assembly of the UN, I'll be introducing amendments to the Sokovia Accords—we'll call them the Captain America Is Disappointed In You Amendments—protecting unregistered superheroes from prosecution if they are responding to provable life and death scenarios. Provable is the key phrase here, people. That means if Daredevil saves a little old lady from being killed, the authorities can't arrest him. It means if Iron Fist prevents the Hand from releasing an ancient entity of destructive power into bowels of New York, he can't be prosecuted.

“It's pretty clear the authors of the Sokovia Accords took a draconian approach to regulating superhero activity in the world. God help us if we forget the sacrifices men and women like Captain America, Hawkeye, Falcon, Black Widow, Ant-Man, and Scarlet Witch have made and ever start caring about their own safety more than ours. If that day comes, we're fucked.”

Pepper cleared her throat again.

“These people risked their lives time and again for the safety of the world. I challenge the United Nations and Avengers Deployment Operations to remove them from the list of wanted criminals. These men and women aren't criminals. Since when do we fucking criminalize people who save our lives on a weekly basis?”

Pepper cut off his mounting tirade again.

“So that's all I have on the docket. Any questions?”

The press went wild. One of the main questions brought up was the whereabouts of James Buchanan Barnes and whether or not the Avengers intended on pursuing him.

Tony said, “James Barnes is a World War II veteran and the longest serving prisoner of war. The Winter Soldier isn't the same as James Barnes. The Winter Soldier is a nightmare created by Hydra using the shattered remains of a man who was tortured and brainwashed. You know what he was doing when the CIA cornered him in Bucharest? Buying plums. The guy just wanted to eat some plums and relax after a hard day at work. What he got instead was dozens of assault rifles shoved in his face.

“I made the mistake of asking Steve Rogers to turn his back on his oldest friend, on someone who needed help. I won't make that mistake again. James Barnes is important to the Avengers and the United States not just because he's one of our fallen heroes but also because he's important to Steve.”

They closed the press conference afterward.

Steve sat in stunned silence. Slowly, his hand reached across the space between Bucky and himself, and their fingers tangled. He let out a measured breath.

Sam said, “Well, it's about time that dude got his head out of his butt.”

They all laughed.

*

Bucky took him out on another date in late August. They got dinner and a movie, some new retelling of the King Arthur myth. A bucket of popcorn perched in Steve's lap, and occasionally, Bucky reached over to take a handful. They were still waiting on an operation for the implantation of a new vibranium limb, so Bucky couldn't hold Steve's hand and eat popcorn at the same time. Every now and then, though, he turned his face into Steve's temple to brush his lips there.

After the movie let out, they walked home to a little bungalow they'd moved into the week before. The atmosphere was thick with humidity and the scent of growing things. It was one of the many qualities he loved about living in Wakanda: their respect of the natural world.

“I just don't see why they have to keep remaking the same stories with the same white protagonists,” Steve commented as their shoes scuffed across the pathway.

“You gotta admit, though, that Charlie Hunnam's got an ass that won't quit.”

Heat rushed into Steve's cheeks. “Okay, he's attractive, but that doesn't take away from the fact that so many unique stories involving an array of various cultures could be told. Instead, it's another adaptation of the same old white-centric fairy tales.”

Bucky shrugged. “I don't know about all that.”

“Take the movie Eddie the Eagle. Cute movie. Good acting, but you can guarantee the only reason it got made was because it starred a white guy. How many other break out Olympic stars are there? Surely we could have told the story of Michelle Kwan, the skating phenom. Or how about Ibtihaj Muhammad. She was the first Muslim-American to wear a hijab during Olympic competition.”

Bucky stopped in the middle of the pathway.

Steve, realizing his partner had stopped, paused and turned back to witness the wonder in his boyfriend's eyes. “What?”

“You're fucking incredible, Steve. How did you forget how incredible you are?”

A blush worked its way onto his cheeks. “You're just saying that because you have to.”

“I'm not.”

Electricity zinged up Steve's spine when Bucky came close enough their chests brushed. He lifted his glance up from the flagstones, breath freezing in his chest from the way Bucky looked at him.

“Stevie,” breathed Bucky, his hand lifting to cup Steve's cheek. “How can you not know? How could you have fucking forgotten how much I admire you?”

Steve shrugged, uncertain how else to respond.

Next thing he knew, their mouths came in contact, and his toes curled in his shoes. It wasn't lightening in a bottle. The kiss was brief but warm and so, so comforting. By the time he came back to his senses, his knuckles ached from fisting the back of Bucky's shirt to keep their bodies together.

The process of getting home went by in a blur. Hurried steps took them up onto their front veranda, and Bucky fumbled one-handed with the keys in order to let them in. They stumbled onto their sofa and collapsed there, a mess of limbs and lips, and it was nice. It was lovely feeling the weight of Bucky's body against him, atop him, between his legs.

But eventually, he flattened his palm against Bucky's chest and pushed slightly. That was all it took to have his boyfriend in motion, backing off to the other end of the couch, flesh hand held to the side so Steve could track its position. The other man looked concerned more than anything.

“There's something I need to tell you.”

“You can tell me anything,” Bucky said.

“Sex is...” He wasn't sure how to put it into words and curled his legs beneath him, tugging his shirt away from the softness of his stomach to keep it from being seen. “I always thought the desire for sex would come. At first, I figured it was because I was small and sick so often. I'm sure that does a number on your hormones. But then with the serum...”

“Breathe, Stevie,” reminded Bucky.

He did. “It's not that I dislike the idea of having sex with you. It's not that I don't want you or don't desire you. I could probably have sex with you and find it pleasant enough, if that's what you wanted, but sex doesn't mean to me what it means to most people.” He allowed the comment the space to breathe for a moment, to sink into Bucky before continuing, “I think I'm asexual, Buck.”

“Oh.” Bucky looked supremely confused.

So Steve grabbed the tablet and scooted closer. Together, they learned about the sexuality spectrum, how people could present with a huge range of sexual needs or lack thereof. Sexual identity could even be incredibly fluid, and some people might have periods of asexuality. After a bit of research, they decided Steve was a bi-romantic asexual. He craved a deeply emotional relationship with Bucky but not the intimacy of becoming sexual with him.

While Steve claimed he wasn't repulsed by sex and would have sex with Bucky to fill Bucky's needs, Bucky was quick to shoot down that idea. No way, he claimed, was he asking Steve to put himself in a position where he wasn't enthusiastically engaged in whatever they did together. He was also quick to point out that Hydra had left him with a huge mess of his own body-related scars to deal with and sex wasn't even a high priority for him either.

So they went to bed together that night, cuddled against each other, and exchanged a few lazy kisses before sleep took them. The following day was a good day for both of them.

*

Right around the middle of September, Steve went into another depressive episode. No real reason for it. He just woke up after a series of lethargic days without any desire to do more than stare at the ceiling. It wasn't that he was sad, per se. The feeling was more one of disinterest. He couldn't be arsed to care about anything except rolling out of bed to raid the kitchen.

Sam found him in the bedroom surrounded by boxes of snack cakes.

“Time to get ready for your appointment, man,” Sam said.

“I'm not going today.”

“You didn't want to go Monday either. Something going on?”

Steve shook his head.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Again, he shook his head.

“Well, you know Dr. B'Antu's gonna ride your ass if you don't show up. Technically, none of us will make you, so if you think dealing with his disappointed face is worth staying home, that's your call. Gotta tell you, though, that you always feel better once you get up and get moving.”

“How would you know?” He cringed over the heavy load of sarcasm in that volley.

“'Cause I got a set of eyes and ears. Remember last time you skipped? Took you two days to get yourself out of your slump. Monday, you didn't want to go but went ahead and went. You were able to get going and felt brighter after the session.”

Steve continued staring at the ceiling, stuck in a loop of contemplating the idea of getting up, showering, and getting dressed in comparison to the grayness of lying there the rest of the day. Eventually, he held out his hand for Sam to help pull him into a seated position.

“Get me my fat pants.”

Dr. B'Antu said nothing about him being late, just opened up the leather folder containing the notes he took during Steve's sessions and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

“How are your eating habits, Steve?”

“Shitty.” He cringed over his petulant tone. He sounded like the Steve who had just started therapy all those months ago.

“Why don't we talk a little about that today?”

Steve indicated Dr. B'Antu should go ahead.

“What do you feel when you're eating?”

“I don't really feel anything.”

“Just because you can't recognize or voice your emotions doesn't mean you aren't having them. Go deeper. Scratch beneath the surface. What do you get out of food besides sustenance?”

He scratched his head. “Comfort, I guess. It's one of the few things I care about when I get like this.”

“Like what?”

“Gray? Everything feels gray and heavy.”

“But you can still derive some comfort and enjoyment while you're eating.”

“The sugar tastes good. So unlike anything we had back then-- Back when I was born.”

“Did you display any sorts of binge eating habits before the ice?”

Something the therapist said caught his ear, and he gave a little huff. “I like that. Before the ice. We have A.D. and B.C. to mark time. There's a distinct gulf between the me from before the ice and the me after the ice. Sounds better than the alternatives.”

The observation seemed to please Dr. B'Antu.

“What was the question?”

“Your eating habits before the ice. Did you display any sorts of binge eating?”

“There was never enough food back then. Binge eating couldn't be a thing when you could barely scrape together enough to put a meal on the table.”

“You need to go deeper than that, Steve, past the 'what if's' and the 'Great Depression made everyone go hungry' to what lurks in reality.”

“Things were always more prevalent during the first of the month. That's when shops got their inventory deliveries.” Words trailed off. He tried to think about the Great Depression and long stretches of want, moments when his stomach cramped with hunger and there never seemed to be enough anything to get them through to more plentiful days.

Eventually, he said, “Bucky was always giving me his food. The Barnes family were better off than my ma. She was a single woman trying to raise a sickly kid, so their pantry was never as barren as ours. I remember Bucky coming over after dinner to bring me food from his house when my ma was between paychecks. He always insisted I eat as much as I could hold.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“It was nice.” The statement came out in a halting manner. “Being cared about was nice. That Bucky would go out of his way was nice. It made me feel good. Those times were the bright spots amidst the sludge of industrialized Brooklyn.”

“Do you think it's possible that built an association of comfort and care giving between you and food?”

Something clicked then, and his eyes widened. He glanced over at Dr. B'Antu. “Yes. Yes, I think that's possible. When I eat, it feels comfortable. It feels safe. Also, I think I'm afraid that food will one day become scarce again, and if I don't eat it now, then I won't have it later.”

Dr. B'Antu offered him a huge smile for making the connection. “It couldn't have been easy going from a position of being food poor to suddenly requiring a massive intake of calories after the serum.”

“It wasn't.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“Food became much less about comfort than fuel then. Suddenly, I needed to eat all this food in order to sustain myself, and soldiers weren't-- When you're in the middle of the war, sensitivity goes out the window. No one had the guts to say anything to my face, but rumors got around.” He toyed with the tissue he'd grabbed from the box earlier.

“What kind of rumors?”

“Back then, being a member of the bourgeoisie was a huge insult. They were capitalists bent on maintaining their supremacy over the economy. There were huge wealth disparities. To be branded of the bourgeoisie was to be seen as a materialistic slave to excess.

“Here's all these Average Joe soldiers caught in the middle of a war zone. Sometimes supply lines would be cut off and rations would run low. They catch a glimpse of Captain America eating more than their rations and don't understand the difference in caloric needs.”

“Did they bully you?”

“I don't want to complain.”

“Steve, talking about the truth or your perception of the truth isn't complaining.”

He nodded. “The Howlies were always quick to jump in, Bucky especially, but I started taking my meals in my quarters instead of the mess tent.”

“Do you think that felt isolating?”

“Yes.”

“Are you afraid people will say bad things about your eating habits if you eat in front of them now?”

“Yes.”

“Then let's put that on your list of things to work on.”

Sam had been right. He felt a little better after the session than he had before hand.

*

In late September, General Ross stepped down as the director of Avengers Deployment Operations under mounting pressure from the United Nations following a series of unnecessary deployments that reeked of nepotism. He was succeeded by Rosalind Price, a no-nonsense woman of gruff disposition who came with incredible credentials. It became evident almost immediately that her handling of Avengers deployments was far superior than the general's had ever been. And while Steve didn't agree with every choice she made, her choices were logical enough he could at least understand them.

She was among the group of people who pressured the United Nations and the American government to issue full pardons to every member of the Secret Avengers. Steve refused to appear at the ceremony, citing ideological differences with President Trump. Mainly, Trump yammered on about the conservative symbol of Captain America coming back home to the United States.

Via a polycom press conference, Steve thanked him for the full pardon but declined the invitation to return to American soil. With as much dignity as he could muster. Turned out, Steve didn't have a lot of room for dignity those days.

“You don't really want me there anyway. Being a member of the asexual spectrum, I might shoot rainbows out of my ass and soil the great conservative push you have going on. Don't get me wrong. I love the people of America. They are a great, hard-working people, and I will always do everything in my power to keep them safe and allow them the freedom to live their lives. Fox News is just really, desperately afraid of rainbows.”

A member of the press asked Bucky what he thought about the decision.

“I agree with my boyfriend.”

The press conference went nuts.

*

October in Wakanda was the start of the long, rainy season on which the dense rainforests thrived. Foot travel throughout the city became more difficult under the daily deluge that dumped incredible amounts of water on the kingdom. Temperatures didn't abate, though, which meant a blanket of fog cloaked the area well into the day. It made the place look eerie. The snarling statue of Bast split the fog with its grim visage.

Steve paused there beneath a heavy umbrella and looked up at its gaze. He still remembered his brush with the panther god, how the beast in him had risen in response to Bast's challenge. Part of him felt honored to have had that experience. Another part was horrified by his behavior. Maybe one day he would get the chance to introduce himself on better terms.

Six months since T'Challa's ultimatum had given him enough clarity to recognize the depths to which he had sunk. Which wasn't to say he was better. Recovery was still a daily struggle. The hardest part, he thought, continued to be his new relationship with food. There were still days when food became his only comfort, but he'd gotten better at managing his binging.

Putting a name to his eating patterns had been tough, but he could say it now without feeling weak. He'd become a binge eater. Recognizing it for what it was had become a stepping stone to an effective coping strategy. It allowed him to tailor his workouts to burn off excess calories and had thus allowed him to return his former physique. Less muscular, actually, as he wasn't in top fighting form anymore.

Steve hurried into P'Salle's office building, collapsing and shaking the umbrella inside the atrium before going up to meet in their regular office. She smiled upon his entrance and finished laying out that week's supplies. Contrary to his expectation, there were hunks of red clay stored inside bags and pottery wheels laid out. It brought a grin to his face.

“We're branching out today?”

“Yes, so change into your work clothes, and we shall begin.”

He moved behind a screen to put on his paint-stained smock and step out of his jeans and into well-worn sweats. Upon returning, he was happy to see Dr. B'Antu had joined them. Six months working with him had smoothed their relationship, though Dr. B'Antu wasn't afraid of giving him the kick in the pants he might need to keep him focused on the road to recovery.

“I asked Dr. B'Antu to join us today. You are ready, I believe, to discuss the events surrounding the implementation of the Sokovia Accords.”

Tension whipped him taut, but instead of backing away, he decided to acquiesce and sat behind the pottery wheel awaiting instruction. “Whenever you're both ready.”

“Near the beginning of our sessions, I had you sketch what the shield represented to you. This time, I would like for you to sculpt it in clay. You may choose whatever iteration you would like. Be it the darker colors of more recent permutations or the version you carried in the USO tour.”

He took the instruction to heart, opened his bag of clay, and laid out globs of it to moisten with a squirt bottle, allowing thought to take him away from his own mind for while. The shield had become a strain for him. That much was obvious. It had become a crutch, something to hide behind, the thing that stood between him and Steve Rogers. He had forgotten that it had started as a way to shield the world from harm and as a symbol to be aspired to.

The creating carried him for a while, and he took comfort in the silky clay beneath his fingers, under his nails, filling the groves of his palms. He winced only slightly when he pressed too hard with the heel of his palm. A recent bad day had brought out his old, unhealthy habit of gouging his palm against the ragged screw on Bucky's old cryostasis pod. The wound was still healing.

By the time Dr. P'Salle asked him to stop, he had shaped a round shield, but instead of the star resting at the center, he'd carved the outline of a falcon. Instead of the red and silver, he'd laid out white and blue acrylics to paint on color once the clay cured. The colors of the United Nations flag to symbolize that the shield shouldn't only represent America.

Dr. P'Salle smiled encouragingly.

“Why'd you choose the falcon?” asked Dr. B'Antu.

“Because I don't think I need Captain America anymore.”

“Is that how you felt before? You needed him.”

“Yeah, because I didn't think I was anything before Project Rebirth.”

“And now you feel differently.”

“More or less. I didn't really understand how heavy the cowl and shield had become until I spent these six months without their weight. Do you think that's bad? That I feel that way?”

“What've we said these past months, Steve?” prompted Dr. B'Antu.

“That I don't need to justify my emotions 'cause I feel the way I feel.”

“Do you suggest you would like to pass the mantle to Mr. Wilson?”

“Yeah. Tony approached us last month about trying to reintegrate our teams. Now that the Accord Amendments have gone live and our pardons came through, they've removed all legal barriers from the Avengers reuniting. He asked me about taking up the shield again.”

“Have you thought about taking the shield?”

“Sure. Being Captain America wasn't all bad, you know. Going to the hospitals and seeing the looks on kids faces when I was in uniform was amazing, but I don't like the fella I became when I allowed the mantle to suffocate me. That guy wasn't a very compassionate guy.”

Dr. B'Antu said, “Let's talk about the Sokovia Accords. What do you think made you stand firm against their implementation?”

“The World Security Council. S.H.I.E.L.D. Hell, the goddamn United States government turned out to be corruptible entities who came with their own agendas in mind. I couldn't trust that the United Nations wouldn't have the same corruption.

“There was something General Ross said when he presented us with the Sokovia Accords. He suggested that if he'd misplaced a couple of nukes, he would have had to answer for that. He forgets that his own government ordered a nuclear strike against Manhattan during the Chitauri Invasion. He may have to answer for losing nukes, but he sure as Hell has never hesitated in using them.

“I think I recognize now that the Avengers couldn't continue operating independently, but the answer is never governmental interference. The answer is transparency. It's working with the various world governments without being beholden to them.”

“Do you think your judgment was skewed during the events of the Sokovia Accords?”

“I stand by my actions. The government had shoot to kill orders in place. They were going to execute Bucky without a fair trial. They went above the law without even attempting to bring him in peacefully. If I hadn't been there, an innocent man would be dead.”

“How do you feel about the accusations that the Avengers are responsible for damages incurred--”

P'Salle didn't even get to finish the question before Steve's teeth felt like they were gritting ground glass between them. “I'm still miffed about that.” But he was able to say it without its previous heat. “If I were a worse person, the next time something big threatened the safety of the world, I'd sit on the sidelines with the kind of drink that comes in a pineapple shell and watch it unfold while the world struggled to stave off impending doom.” He took a breath. “But I'm not that kinda guy, and the unspoken millions are worth more than the loudest who scream for our heads.”

B'Antu grinned and fist-pumped the air.

“What?” asked Steve.

“You just said 'if I were a worse person.' The road to get you to admit to being a good man has been long and arduous, Steve. I'm so incredibly proud of you for being able to say that.”

A little grin played at his lips. “I guess so.”

It certainly wasn't the last time they would meet. His sessions had been pared down to a twice a month for art therapy and once a week with Dr. B'Antu, but he wasn't anywhere near a place that he could call himself 'better.' Maybe that horizon wouldn't ever arrive. Maybe recovery was a life-long process, but it no longer felt like a weakness to admit to needing that help. He'd seen the results for himself.

Steve stopped at the bakery on the way home to pick up some Malva Pudding. Home was now a conical house reminiscent of the dwellings of ancient Wakandans. Some of those structures could be still be viewed, now protected under glass domes to prevent erosion from wind, rain, and human contamination. It was one of the reasons he'd chosen to make Wakanda his home. They appreciated the past enough to preserve it, enough to remember their past mistakes.

The home he shared with Bucky was nestled against a mountain side, the interior spacious but lacking the compartmentalized nature of most United States homes. Privacy for the bedroom and bathroom was achieved by curved walls, but the rest of the space was communal. The front outer wall was made entirely of glass to make use of the early morning sunshine. Steve had a small art area set up there.

Bucky, who had been lounging in a hammock out front, rolled to his feet upon Steve's approach. Their mouths sought each other out, lips soft and giving, Steve's hand lifting to cup the man's jaw and the side of his neck, his thumb fitting into the depression in Bucky's chin.

“Appointment go okay?”

“Yeah, it was good. I finally got some things off my chest. I brought that pudding you like.”

“Sweet!” Bucky snatched the bakery container and took it inside to the kitchen for serving.

Their dog, a red-colored Sloughi they had named Bullet, stretched long legs in front of her and yawned before trotting over to greet Steve with a wet nose against his palm. Smiling, he crouched to give her the attention she deserved. She'd certainly earned her keep by running them to death in the morning. They couldn't skimp out when Bullet had energy to burn. Otherwise, she didn't let them sleep at night.

He leaned against the counter in the kitchen and watched Bucky plate two servings of the bread pudding before drizzling heavy sauce over top, admiring the way his partner moved absent hyper-awareness. Their relationship had been slow to build, neither willing to misstep for fear of shattering the brittle bonds of friendship that had remained from the forties.

They still hadn't gone beyond making out, but that was fine. They were both comfortable with where they were. Maybe sexual intimacy would come in time, but they were happy with the relationship they had. Having sex wouldn't deepen their love for each other.

So maybe their relationship would change in the future. Maybe it would stay the same. The one thing he could say for certain was that he wanted this man in his life for the rest of it, however long that lasted. Steve smiled and moved up behind Bucky to wrap both arms around his waist to deposit a soft kiss against the nape of his neck. Bucky laughed and snuggled back into his chest.

Fake Bucky, the one who had haunted Steve's mind during the worst of his depression, came with much less frequency. When his sickness did take shape in the form of Bucky, its taunts were much less believable. Dr. B'Antu and he had discussed it at length. He could now recognize that Bucky as being the darkest, most maladaptive thoughts of Steve's own psyche presented behind a familiar face.

Bucky took both plates to their kitchen table and sat with one leg tucked under him. T'Challa's surgeons had removed the Hydra hardware and replaced it with a vibranium substitute that came complete with a flesh-like sleeve. The decision to go ahead with the surgery had been difficult. Bucky had struggled with his self-image, had struggled with having Hydra's limb forced on him without his consent, so it had taken a few months for him to accept that his body was his own again.

They ate quietly, Bullet plopping down at Bucky's feet to stare longingly up at his plate. Her ears perked forward and her tail thumped the ground to alert them well before the crunch of tires on gravel brought their attention to approaching visitors.

Steve was the first on his feet. Instinct still guided him to grab the gun he stored in a wall safe before lowering the opacity on the front window-wall to look out. A sleek convertible pulled up. Tony Stark stepped out. It wasn't the first time Tony had visited them. It was the first time Tony had come without calling ahead of time, though.

Steve tucked the gun back where it belonged and opened the door.

Tony removed his sunglasses and hooked them in the collar of his button down. “Well if it isn't Darrin and Samantha Stephens. My old buddy and his boy toy. Don't get up, Angel.”

Steve's brow furrowed. “I don't understand that reference.”

“Who? Darrin and--”

“No, I get those. Bewitched. The other one.”

Tony gasped. “You haven't seen BVS yet? Shame on you. You know, Angel. Vampire without a soul. One minute he's helping kittens across the street, next he's-- Yeah, you get it now.”

He stepped aside to invite Tony inside.

“So look at you two, being all cozy and playing house together. This isn't a social call, by the way. I still hate you both. Oh! Is that bread pudding?”

Bucky growled when Tony got anywhere near the bread pudding.

“Okay then. No bread pudding for me. Anyhow, we have Avengers business to discuss. Cases are piling up. There's only so many hands to go around. Wanda refuses to take orders from me. Clint's retired. I expect that to last another week. Sam looks at me like I'm-- I should probably not say that incredibly racist thing I was about to say. Look at me being all sensitive and stuff.”

“What do you want, Tony?” asked Steve.

“You, big guy. And I guess your boy toy here if you have to come as a package deal.”

“We're retired.”

“Every super hero says that at least once. It's a thing, I guess.” Tony's devil-may-care attitude turned serious unexpectedly. “We miss you, Cap. I mean, they miss you. The others. Hell, even Parker's been asking about you. And I thought. Maybe if we-- Look, I'm not gonna apologize for signing the Accords.”

“Not asking you to.”

“What do you want from me, Cap?”

“I want you to respect that I made a decision that was contrary to yours. Neither of us are blameless in how things worked out between us. I didn't do right by withholding information on your parents' deaths. You tried to kill someone important to me without even giving him a fair trial.”

Tony's expression soured. He was quiet for a few moments, apparently uncertain about where to go or how to be emotionally available. Eventually, he said, “Guess I have a problem with grand gestures. I fucked up with the Ultron fiasco and expected the rest of the team to shoulder the consequences.”

“I didn't trust you with the truth.”

“You think we could ever, you know, start again?”

“Everybody deserves a second chance, Tony.”

“Okay. Well.” Tony rubbed his palm against the leg of his trousers before thrusting it out. “Tony Stark. You may have heard of me. I tried to kill your best friend. I'm going to piss you off three times a day—it's in my contract—and I'm probably going to tease you about being massively old and out of touch with the reality of modern life.”

A tiny smile curved Steve's mouth. He accepted the handshake. “Steve Rogers. People tell me I'm stubborn. I've got anger issues, self-esteem issues, and the next time you tell me that everything special about me came out of a bottle, I'll put your head through concrete. Your love of excess is going to drive me crazy, but deep down, I secretly enjoy some of your grand gestures.”

Bucky piped up suddenly, his words tripping before straightening into something sensible. “Bucky Barnes. Used to be this guy called the Winter Soldier. I hurt you. Hurt a lot of people. Your dad, he used to show me things in his lab.”

Tony started tensing.

Steve mirrored the rising emotion in the room, hoping to God they could get through this, that Bucky could say his piece and Tony could find some sort of closure in hearing it.

“There was this scrappy little calico cat who lived on base in the war. We strapped a dummy explosive to the cat's back and set it loose in the mess tent. Had everyone screeching and diving for cover. Howard was my friend.” He licked his lips. “I didn't see your dad and mom that day. I didn't see my friend. All I could see was the target they'd pointed me toward.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Sorry isn't enough. It's never gonna be enough. You don't owe me forgiveness, but the very least I can do is remember the man behind the weapons development. That guy was a real good guy. I guess, I just wanted to say that there won't be a day that goes by that I won't remember, and if you ever wanted me to tell you about the guy I knew, I could maybe write it down or something.”

Tony was quiet for seconds that seemed to stretch like pulled taffy. The man's gaze was downcast. He couldn't bring himself to look Bucky in the eyes, but in the end, he nodded, just a quick jerk for his head to accept the volunteered information. Then, like cuttle fish that could change colors at will, he plastered that charismatic grin back into place.

“So what do you say, Big Guy? Wanna be an Avenger?”

“No.”

Tony's shoulders sagged.

“But I might see my way clear to becoming a non-combatant consultant.”

“I'll take it. What about you, Barnesy?”

“Don't look at me. I'm Steve's sugar baby.”

Steve smiled. They stood together, Steve's arm around Bucky's waist, and waved their guest down the driveway, Bullet coming to wind her way around their legs. For the first time since waking up in a new century, Steve felt content. Like he wasn't racing to catch up. Like he'd finally come home again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Under the Skein](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11850441) by [turn_turn_turn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turn_turn_turn/pseuds/turn_turn_turn)




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